Chapter 43 Olivia
OLIVIA
I hate hospitals. Always have. Even before I became a doctor, the fluorescent lights and sterile hallways made my skin crawl. That was probably my mom’s doing.
Now, walking through the ICU at Mass General with Stefan’s hand gripping mine, I hate them even more.
We’re directed to a private room at the end of the hall. Two of Stefan’s men stand guard outside, their faces blank but alert. They nod as we approach, and one of them opens the door.
Babushka lies in the bed, so small beneath the white sheets. Tubes run from her arms. Monitors beep steadily, tracking her vitals. Her silver hair is loose against the pillow, her face pale but peaceful.
She’s alive.
That’s what matters.
Stefan freezes in the doorway. For a moment, he just stands there, staring at his grandmother like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he blinks.
“Come on,” I murmur, tugging his hand gently.
We move to her bedside. Stefan sinks into the chair beside her and reaches for her hand, careful not to disturb the IV.
“Babushka,” he whispers.
She doesn’t respond. The machines keep beeping their steady rhythm.
A doctor appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. She’s young, maybe early thirties, with dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. “Mr. Safonov?”
Stefan doesn’t look up. “How is she?”
“Stable. The bullet to her shoulder was clean—went straight through without hitting bone. The chest wound was more serious, but it missed her heart by less than an inch. She’s incredibly lucky.”
“Lucky,” Stefan repeats flatly. “That’s not what I’d call it.”
The doctor shifts her weight. “Her lung was punctured, but we’ve repaired the damage. She’s on a ventilator to help her breathe while she heals. The next forty-eight hours are critical, but if there are no complications, we’re cautiously optimistic.”
“When will she wake up?”
“We’re keeping her sedated for now to allow her body to focus on healing. Once we’re confident she’s stable, we’ll begin reducing the sedation. It could be a few days.”
Stefan nods once, his jaw tight.
The doctor glances at me. “Are you family?”
“She’s my fiancée,” Stefan says before I can answer.
The doctor nods. “I’ll give you some privacy. If you need anything, press the call button.”
She leaves, and the room falls quiet except for the machines.
I pull up another chair and sit beside Stefan. His thumb strokes Elena’s hand, over and over, like he’s trying to anchor himself.
“She’s a fighter,” I say softly. “The doctor said so herself.”
“She shouldn’t have to fight. She should be safe at home, making tea and yelling at me for working too much.”
“I know.”
“This is my fault.”
“Stefan—”
“It is. They came for Mikayla. They knew exactly where she was. And Babushka got caught in the crossfire because I kept Mikayla in my house instead of somewhere secure.”
He’s wrong. It’s not his fault.
It’s mine.
I’m the one who told Natalia about Mikayla. I’m the one who gave her enough information to piece together where Mikayla was being held. If those men came to break Mikayla out, if Elena got shot because of it, then I’m responsible.
I should tell him. Right now. I should confess everything—the phone calls with Dr. Heller, the meeting with Natalia, the journal she gave me, all of it.
But when I look at Stefan’s face, drawn and exhausted and scared in a way I’ve never seen before, the words stick in my throat.
He’s barely holding it together. Elena is the most important person in his world, and she’s lying unconscious in a hospital bed because someone tried to break into his home.
Telling him now that I’m the reason they knew how to find Mikayla? That I’ve been secretly communicating with the mother he thought he killed fifteen years ago?
It would destroy him.
Or worse, it would destroy us.
“You couldn’t have known,” I say instead, despising myself for the lie.
“I should have anticipated every possibility.”
“You’re not a mind reader, Stefan. You can’t predict everything.”
He doesn’t respond. His eyes stay fixed on Elena’s face, searching for any sign of consciousness.
I reach out and take his free hand. His fingers curl around mine, holding on like I’m the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
“She’s going to be okay,” I whisper. “She has to be.”
“Yeah.”
But his voice says he doesn’t believe that.
We sit like that for what feels like hours. Nurses come and go, checking vitals and adjusting IVs. Stefan doesn’t move except to shift his grip on Elena’s hand. I watch the monitors, tracking her heart rate and oxygen levels. Everything looks stable. The doctor was right—Elena is a fighter.
But the guilt keeps gnawing at me. Tell him. Just tell him.
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
“I need coffee,” he says abruptly, standing. “Do you want anything?”
“I’m fine.”
He nods and walks out. The moment he’s gone, I drop my head into my hands. I have to tell him. I know I do. But how? When?
Not now. Not when he’s like this.
I’ll wait. Just a little while longer. Until Elena wakes up. Once Stefan has had time to process everything and the immediate crisis is over, then I’ll tell him the truth.
The door opens and I look up, expecting Stefan with coffee. But it’s not him.
It’s Dr. Heller. She looks uncomfortable, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Dr. Aster. I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
“Dr. Heller.” I stand. “What are you doing here?”
“I was checking on a patient when I heard about Mrs. Safonova. I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She glances at the door, then back at me. “Could I speak with you for a moment? Privately?”
My stomach drops. “Of course.”
We step into the hallway. Stefan’s guards watch us but don’t interfere.
Dr. Heller reaches into her jacket and pulls out a sealed envelope. “Ms. Genevieve asked me to give this to you. She was very specific—it’s for you and you alone.”
I stare at the envelope like it might bite me if I reach for it. It feels like the universe taunting me, shoving this whole mess in my face. In the end, though, I have no choice: I take it.
“Thank you.”
Dr. Heller nods and scurries away.
I stand there for a moment, the envelope burning in my hands. Then I turn and head toward the nearest restroom.
Inside, I lock the door and lean against the sink. The envelope is thick, expensive. My name is written across the front in elegant cursive.
I tear it open. The note inside is short, written in the same perfect handwriting.
Olivia,
I’m so sorry about what happened with Elena. They were never meant to hurt anyone. They were just meant to break Mikayla out of her prison. Please believe me.
Meet me a week from now at the Eliot Hotel at 1 P.M. for lunch. We can discuss everything there.
— Natalia
I read it twice. Three times.
They were never meant to hurt anyone. But they did. Elena is lying unconscious in a hospital bed because of this. Because of me. No—because of her.
I crumple the note in my fist, then flatten it out again. My hands are shaking. Should I go? Should I meet Natalia and try to fix this mess I’ve helped create?
Or should I tell Stefan everything right now and let him decide what to do?
The bathroom door rattles. “Occupied,” I call out.
I fold the note carefully and tuck it into my purse. Then I splash cold water on my face and take a deep breath.
When I return to Elena’s room, Stefan is back, sitting in the same chair with a cup of coffee cooling in his hands. He doesn’t look like he’s taken a single sip.
I sit beside him again. The note feels like it’s burning a hole through my purse.
“Taras called,” Stefan explains. “He’s been working on increasing security at the manor. Triple the guards, new surveillance systems. No one who doesn’t belong will get within a mile of the place.”
“Yeah. Good. Good.”
He finally looks at me. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m just worried about Elena.”
It’s not a lie. I am worried. But it’s not the whole truth, either.
Stefan sets down his coffee and pulls me against his side. I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent of citrus and smoke.
“We’ll get through this,” he murmurs. “All of it.”
I close my eyes. “I know.”
The hours blur together. Nurses come and go. The machines keep beeping. Elena stays unconscious, her chest rising and falling.
Around midnight, Stefan finally dozes off in his chair, his head tilted back against the wall. I watch him sleep, his face softer in rest but still lined with worry.
I pull out my phone and stare at the blank screen. I could text Natalia. Tell her I’m not coming. Yell at her to stay away from my family.
Or I could go. Hear what she has to say. Try to understand why she ordered an attack that nearly killed Elena.
They were never meant to hurt anyone.
But intentions don’t matter when someone ends up shot, do they?
I think about Stefan’s face when he talks about his mother. The rage and pain and betrayal that’s still so raw after fifteen years.
I think about the journal Natalia gave me. The entries from Matvey that painted a starkly different picture of their marriage than the one Stefan described.
I think about Elena lying in this bed, her body fighting to heal from wounds that never should have happened.
And I think about the baby growing inside me. The child who deserves parents who trust each other. Who don’t keep secrets.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. But I don’t type anything. Not yet.
Stefan stirs, his eyes blinking open. “What time is it?”
“Just after midnight.”
He sits up, rolling his shoulders. “You should go home. Get some rest.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Olivia—”
“No. I’m staying. Don’t even ask.”
He studies my face, then nods. “Okay.”
The note sits in my purse, waiting. A week from now, I’ll have to decide—meet Natalia and try to salvage something from this disaster, or tell Stefan the truth and face whatever comes next. For now, I just hold his hand and watch Elena breathe.
One crisis at a time.
That’s all I can handle.