Chapter 16
Elena & Kiryan
Elena
Kiryan walked out and never even looked back.
Olga stared at the door, her chest heaving.
"That little bastard. Thirty-eight years old, and he still handles women the way a spoiled boy handles a tantrum—slam a door and run.
" She shoved my phone into my hand, getting angrier by the second.
"His wife is crying, and he goes chasing another woman, telling himself he is 'finding the truth'?
If he has half a brain, he'd start by asking who keeps yanking his leash. "
"Olga..."
"Don't you dare cover for him." She turned on me, her eyes full of ache. "Men doing stupid shit isn't the scary part. The scary part is when they call their stupidity 'insight' and make the people who love them pay for it."
I wanted to say I hadn't covered for him, but my throat tightened. The thing I'd been crushing down through the whole fight suddenly lost its grip and surged up. I stumbled into the bathroom and threw up like I was trying to empty my entire body.
"Sweetheart." Olga followed me in, her palm landing between my shoulders. "Easy. Breathe."
She rubbed my back in steady strokes. That kind of unconditional care made my nose burn.
I'd learned young how to not be a problem—find my own medicine, shut my door when I got hurt, cry it out, wash my face, come back like nothing happened.
If I stayed quiet enough, nobody would call me an eyesore.
But Olga looked at me like my pain actually mattered.
"It is probably just too much stress." I turned on the faucet and avoided the mirror, avoided the pale face staring back. "I didn't sleep last night. I didn't eat breakfast."
"Stress doesn't make you puke like this." Her gray brows drew down hard. "I called the driver. We go to the hospital. Now."
"No." I grabbed her sleeve. "I just... I want to be alone for a little bit."
She studied me for a few seconds. "One hour. If you don't feel better, we go. That isn't a suggestion."
I forced a thin, shaky smile.
She helped me up and walked me back to the studio.
I stood in front of the unfinished canvas, brush tip hovering, unable to land. The gold light in the room warped in my vision. The dizziness swam. Isabella had come back, and everything would snap back into place.
And I was just the wrong stroke. Sooner or later, I'd get painted over.
Time crawled. Olga knocked twice. I kept her out with "Just a little longer." Then acid rose in my throat again. I bent over the table, palms braced, and I couldn't blame it on feelings anymore.
For the past week, the smell of coffee turned my stomach. I woke up hollow and nauseous. Even my favorite cream soup wouldn't go down. Exhaustion sat on me like a wet blanket—sometimes I'd barely sit before my eyelids dragged.
And my period. I counted again, and again. It was more than two weeks late. Mine had always been regular.
My fingertips went cold.
A guess I didn't want to give shape spread through me. I didn't tell Olga. I left the manor alone and went to the hospital.
On the way, I fed myself excuses. Insomnia. Stress. Post-fever weakness. Anything felt safer than that answer. But when my hand drifted to my lower belly on its own, a thin, fragile thread of hope pushed up through the fear.
It was flat and quiet. Nothing to feel. But what if there was a baby?
The nurse handed me a form. I paused a long time under "Emergency Contact," then finally wrote Kiryan Morozov. The ink pooled into a dark dot beside the phone number. The calls he'd rejected, his back as he left—everything rose off the page like a ghost.
If I was pregnant, should I tell him?
He'd never said he wanted kids. Even admitting I was his wife had felt like a favor he could snatch back whenever he felt like it. I was scared he'd know. I was scared he'd never know. Both fears clamped around my chest until I couldn't breathe right.
"Ma'am?" the nurse prompted.
"Sorry." I finished and handed it back.
"How long have you felt nauseous?"
"Over a week."
"Tired easily? Sensitive to smells?"
I nodded.
"We draw blood first," she said softly. "Try not to get yourself worked up before the results."
When the needle went in, I shut my eyes and told myself, over and over, it wouldn't be that. But under the denial lived a quieter voice—what if it was? Waiting stretched thin under the wall clock. Every little tick sounded like a dull blade scraping my nerves.
"Mrs. Morozova?"
My head snapped up.
The doctor stood in the doorway and smiled. "Come on in."
I sat at the desk, my knees almost knocking the edge. She confirmed my name and opened the report. Those seconds turned endless. I stared at the paper in her hands and barely dared to breathe.
"The blood test is positive," she said. "You are pregnant."
The world went dead silent.
I saw her lips moving, but for a few seconds I didn't hear anything.
Pregnant. Kiryan's baby. Our baby.
My hand fell to my stomach. Still no movement, still nothing—and yet a life had already changed everything without a sound. I pictured a tiny shape with gray eyes, and my heart went soft so fast it hurt. Heat stung behind my eyes.
"It is still very early," the doctor said, sliding the report toward me. "Any abdominal pain or bleeding?"
I shook my head.
"Is this a planned pregnancy?"
The edge of the paper bit into my palm. "I don't know."
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I didn't know if this baby would pull us closer or trap me deeper.
I didn't even know if I could be a good mother.
I hadn't learned much gentleness from my own mother.
My father had never chosen me with any kind of certainty.
But the second my palm covered my belly, one thought rang sharp and clean: no matter what Kiryan chose, I wouldn't let this child grow up like me—shrinking to fit a world that didn't love them.
That resolve scared me. It also gave me strength for the first time.
The doctor went over follow-ups, rest, medication warnings. I tried to hold onto every word. When I walked out, it still felt like I was stepping on something soft. New York's lights glowed through the corridor windows. I pressed the report to my chest and didn't move for a long time.
A few days ago, I'd truly thought Kiryan was starting to accept me.
Those moments couldn't have all been fake. He lived on control, and he'd still sat naked in front of me for hours as my model. He'd said my work mattered. He'd held me like I belonged there.
A man could lie with words. It was harder to lie with his body. The way he'd held me, the breath at my mouth—none of it had been cold.
Maybe he just hadn't seen his own feelings yet. Maybe this baby could make him stop, look again at what we'd had, and finally see Isabella for what she was.
That hope was naive. It still lit up inside the dark.
I pulled up Kiryan's number. My thumb hovered over it, and every recent memory of being dismissed tried to stop me. But there it was on the report—my name with his last name, and beneath it a life that had just begun.
It was his child. He had the right to know. I couldn't take that from him because I was scared.
The phone rang twice before it connected.
"Kiryan." I clenched the report. "I have something really important to tell you."
?????
Kiryan
I sat back on the sofa in the VIP room, knuckles pressed to my brow.
After the ER stopped the bleeding, Isabella had been moved up for observation. The doctor said the wound hadn't hit anything vital or bone, but they still needed more tests.
Feodor and the security team rotated in with updates. The last ambush had pointed at Matteo. Today a car had slammed into us. I didn't believe in coincidences.
And then Elena called.
Her name lit up on my screen and the morning's fight stormed back—leaked video, her denial, her tears begging me not to go, and the door I'd shut without looking back. It all collided in my head.
I wanted to hear her. I didn't want to face the disappointment I knew would be in her voice.
I answered, but I didn't speak right away.
"Is now a bad time?" she asked.
A sound came from the bed. Isabella used her uninjured hand to brace herself and slowly sit up. The second her feet hit the floor, pain pinched her brow. The edge of the gauze on her forehead already showed a bloom of red.
"Stop." My voice came out low and hard.
Elena paused on the line.
Isabella shook her head anyway. Barefoot, she walked toward me, each step slower than usual, until she stood right in front of me. I lifted my hand, motioning her back. She glanced at the phone—and instead of retreating, she climbed into my lap.
Her injured arm and her bandaged forehead sat between us like a shield. I couldn't just shove her off.
"Kiryan?" Elena said again.
Isabella's fingers slid down my collar. Before, that kind of closeness had been enough—I'd known what she wanted, and I'd given it. Now I acted like I didn't.
I caught her good wrist. She stared straight at me with those narrow eyes, bold and hungry, full of the lure and challenge I'd once known by heart. She knew exactly what she was doing. I wouldn't use my usual force with her stitches.
"I'm listening," I said into the phone.
Isabella pulled free and popped open the top button of my shirt.
"I thought about this morning," Elena said, her voice soft. "We both listened to other people instead of actually listening to each other. Maybe we should talk. Really talk."
The second button came undone. I grabbed Isabella's hand again. She tipped her head and ran her tongue lightly across my palm.
My stomach turned. I clamped a hand around her waist to lift her off me—and clipped her injured arm by accident.
"And also, I went to the hospital today. The doctor said..." Elena started.
Isabella's body jolted from the pain. A soft, breathy moan slipped out of her mouth.
The line went dead quiet.
I knew instantly Elena had heard it.
"Elena!"
The call ended. She hung up.
Something sharp drove through my chest. I shoved Isabella off and stood, already hitting redial. The phone rang once—then Isabella snatched it from my hand and ended the call.
"Give it back."
She held her arm and her voice trembled. "If it is really urgent, she wouldn't have hung up. If you keep calling, you'd just start fighting again."
I yanked my phone back, cold anger packed into every word. "You interfered with my call. You hung up for me. Who the hell gave you permission to make decisions for me?"
"I was scared." She bit her pale lip. "The anesthesia wore off. Every time I close my eyes I hear the crash again. I was scared you'd take her call and leave. I was scared you'd leave me here alone."
The blood seeping through her gauze and the shake in her shoulders forced my anger to stall. Whatever she'd just done didn't change the fact that a few hours ago she'd almost died beside me.
"Get back in bed."
She edged closer. "Are you going to stay?"
I didn't answer.
On my screen, Elena's name sat at the top of the call log.
She'd said she went to the hospital. Why?
I replayed the unnatural pause in her voice. A bad feeling crawled up my spine.
Was she sick? Had something happened—something big enough that she'd called after our fight?
I should've called her back immediately.