Chapter Forty-Eight
Ilona
The silence in this house is suffocating.
I shift on the velvet chaise lounge in the sitting room, pressing my palm against my lower abdomen where a dull ache has been gnawing at me all day.
The pain I’ve associated with endometriosis is back with a vengeance, like my body is punishing me for daring to hope.
Every muscle feels tender, every breath shallow.
Even the act of sitting upright sends waves of discomfort through my pelvis.
Twelve weeks feels like a lifetime away. I’m barely at five.
I glance at the antique clock on the mantle— 7 p.m. The evening light has dimmed to amber, and now the house feels cavernous around me. Osip won’t be back until late. Something about complications at the construction site. I can still remember the tension in his voice when he’d called earlier.
“Don’t overdo it, malyshka,” he’d said, his accent thick with an oddly intense concern. “I need you safe.”
Don’t overdo it.
I don’t know how I could possibly do any less physical activity.
I’ve read three books this week. Scrolled through my phone until my eyes burned.
Binged every mindless show Netflix has to offer until the characters’ voices blur together into meaningless noise.
The boredom is almost worse than the pain — it gives my mind too much space to wander into dangerous territory.
Like the way my heart skipped when he called me “ malyshka. ” Like how safe I feel when he’s here, even though everything about Osip Sidorov screams danger.
Like how I already love this baby with a fierce, protective intensity that terrifies me.
Sometimes I catch myself talking to it, whispering promises about the life we’ll have together.
Other times I’m gripped by such overwhelming fear of losing it that I can barely breathe.
Like how I’m dangerously close to falling in love with the man whose child I’m carrying.
The thought makes my chest tighten with equal parts longing and terror. I can’t afford to love Osip Sidorov. Not when everything about our situation is built on quicksand.
But God help me, I can’t stop myself. His growing tenderness and fierce protectiveness since learning about the baby is impossible to resist.
I know he’s dangerous; the cache of weapons in his secret room made that very clear. Yet he’s so tender with me. The contradiction should confuse me. Instead, it draws me deeper into whatever web we’re weaving together.
Probably because I need to feel safe right now. After what happened with the car, and the bizarre moment where I thought I saw Stanley, I’m neurotic as hell.
Someone wanted me dead. Or hurt. If I hadn’t been driving so slowly that day…
I push the thought away before it can take root.
Here I am, trapped in this place, safe but slowly going insane from the isolation.
The mansion is a fortress, complete with security cameras and armed guards who try to pretend they’re gardeners.
I know because I’ve tested the boundaries, tried to take walks around the grounds only to have polite but immovable men redirect me back toward the house.
For my safety, they say. Osip’s orders.
Part of me is grateful. The other part wants to scream at the beautiful bars of my prison.
Another dull cramp rolls through my abdomen, making me wince. I’ve been having them on and off all day— nothing severe, just enough to remind me that my body is a battleground right now. Hormones and endometriosis and pregnancy all warring for control while I sit here like a spectator.
I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing, the way Dr. Varga taught me.
In for four counts, hold for four, out for four.
The meditation app on my phone has become my lifeline these past few days, though even the soothing voice of the instructor can’t calm me down completely.
A sharp cramp seizes my abdomen, so sudden and vicious that I gasp aloud.
This one is different— deeper, more insistent.
The pain radiates from my pelvis up through my ribs, stealing my breath and making my vision blur at the edges.
I curl forward instinctively, pressing both hands against my stomach as if I can will the agony away.
This doesn’t feel right. This really doesn’t feel right.
A surge of panic hits me.
The baby.
Please, God, not the baby.
The words become a mantra as I rock slightly, trying to breathe through it. I’ve had bad endometriosis pain before, but this… this feels different. More urgent. More dangerous. When the cramp finally subsides after what feels like an eternity, I’m left shaky and cold despite the warmth of the room.
I try to keep breathing slowly. Dr. Varga said stress makes everything worse. I need to stay calm for the baby’s sake. The cramping could just be my body adjusting to the hormonal changes. It doesn’t have to mean anything sinister.
But the fear has already taken root, spreading through my chest.
I make my way upstairs to the master bathroom, my legs unsteady beneath me. Each step feels precarious, like I might crumble at any moment. The marble is cool under my bare feet as I turn on the taps, letting the water run at a soothing temperature.
“Just calm down,” I tell myself, stroking soft circles on my belly. “Relax.”
In for four counts, hold for four, out for four.
“We’re going to be okay,” I whisper to my reflection in the mirror over the oversized tub. To the tiny life growing inside me. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
The words feel hollow in the steamy air, but I need to say them anyway. I need to believe them.
The bath is exactly what I need. The warmth seeps into my muscles, loosening the knots of tension that have been building all day.
I sink deeper into the water until it laps at my chin, closing my eyes and letting my mind drift.
The lavender bath oil Osip had one of his people buy for me fills the air with its calming scent, and finally, the pain ebbs to a manageable ache.
I let myself think about him while I soak.
About the way he looks at me in the mornings when he thinks I’m still asleep, his expression soft and unguarded.
About how his hands shake slightly when he touches my belly, like he’s afraid his touch might somehow hurt us.
About the Russian lullabies I caught him humming under his breath yesterday when he thought I was napping.
Osip Sidorov, singing lullabies.
The man who looks like he could topple empires humming tender melodies for a baby that’s barely the size of a grape.
The thought charms me in a way that it shouldn’t.
By the time I climb out, toweling off with one of his ridiculously expensive Egyptian cotton towels, I feel almost human again. The cramping has stopped completely. My breathing is steady. The warm flush in my cheeks makes me look healthier, more alive.
Everything is fine. I was just overreacting, letting fear get the better of me.
See?
You’re being paranoid.
I slip into one of his shirts— a black button-down that still carries the faint scent of his cologne, something dark and expensive that makes my pulse quicken.
The fabric is soft against my skin, and wearing his clothes feels intimate in a way that probably should worry me.
But right now, wrapped in something that smells like safety and strength, I can’t bring myself to care about the implications.
The sheets are cool against my overheated skin when I crawl into bed, and exhaustion pulls at me like a tide. The combination of the bath and the emotional strain of the day have left me totally drained. Within minutes, I’m drifting into sleep, my hands cradling my belly.
But sleep doesn’t last.
I wake with a gasp, disoriented in the darkness. The bedside clock glows 10:47 p.m. in accusatory red numbers. Something pulled me from my dreams— not a sound, but a sensation. Another cramp is building, this one worse than before, like someone is twisting a knife in my abdomen.
The pain starts as a dull ache and quickly escalates into something that steals my breath completely.
It’s different from the earlier cramping— even deeper, more insistent, with a tearing quality that makes panic rise in my chest. I bite back a scream, not wanting to alert the security team unless absolutely necessary.
No, no, no.
This can’t be happening.
I press my thighs together, trying to breathe through the pain the way I learned in yoga class, but something feels wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong. There’s a wetness between my legs that wasn’t there before, and when my hand slides down to investigate, my heart stops.
Sticky warmth.
Unmistakable texture.
I yank my hand back, and even in the dim light filtering through the curtains, I can see the dark stain on my fingers.
Blood.
I’m bleeding… my body is cramping and I’m bleeding.
No!
Please, no!
I stumble out of bed on unsteady legs, fumbling as I switch on the lamp. The evidence is there on the pristine white sheets— a small but unmistakable crimson stain that looks like everything I’ve ever feared.
Oh God.
Oh God, please, no!
My legs give out, and I sink to my knees beside the bed, staring at the stain like it might disappear if I just wish hard enough. But it doesn’t. If anything, it seems to grow larger in my peripheral vision, mocking my hope and my desperate need for this pregnancy to work out.
Terror floods my system, making my heart race so fast I’m afraid it might burst. I grab a washcloth from the bathroom, cleaning myself desperately, as if that would help somehow, but the bleeding doesn’t stop.
It’s not heavy, but it’s there. Real. Undeniable.
Each swipe of the cloth reveals more red, more proof that my body is betraying me again.
“Please,” I choke out. “Please don’t let this be happening. Please…”
But my head is already telling me what my heart doesn’t want to acknowledge. The endometriosis has won. The stress, the isolation, the fear— it’s all culminated in this moment, this loss that I can feel happening in real time.
I’m losing the baby.
The thought drives me to my feet with manic energy, sending me rushing down the hallway toward Osip’s office.
I don’t care that I’m wearing nothing but his shirt, don’t care that my hair is wild and my face is streaked with tears I don’t remember crying.
I don’t care about dignity or composure or the fact that I might be overreacting.
I’m not overreacting!
I need him. I need him right now, and the desperation of that need should scare me, but I’m already too terrified to care about anything else.
He’ll know what to do. He always knows what to do.
The office door is closed, but I can see light bleeding out from under it. He’s home.
Thank God, he’s home.
I don’t knock. I don’t hesitate. I burst through the door like my life depends on it.
Because maybe it does.
I just pray it’s not too late for my baby.