Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ella
I woke up to daylight.
The curtains hadn't been fully drawn—a thin line of pale morning light leaked through the gap, hitting the carpet and cutting a clean, straight mark.
My brain took a few seconds to boot up.
Then the memories came flooding back—last night's pain, Porter's voice outside the door, and Sergei.
Sergei.
I bolted upright.
Too fast. My head spun, my stomach lurched, but not as violently as last night.
The room was empty.
The chair by the bed sat vacant, a dark gray blanket draped over its back.
He'd really been here last night.
I placed my hand on my stomach.
Flat.
I felt nothing.
But the possibility still hung there, like a sword about to drop.
I needed to know.
I climbed out of bed, feet bare on the carpet. My legs were still a little weak, but better than last night. I walked to the door and gently turned the handle.
The hallway was quiet.
Low voices drifted from the living room—Sergei's, and Bogdan's.
I didn't go out.
I turned back, went into the bathroom, and shut the door.
The woman in the mirror looked like hell—hair a tangled mess, face pale, dark circles under her eyes like bruises.
I gripped the edge of the sink and stared at my reflection.
"Ella Collins," I said quietly. "You need to make a decision."
Either buy a pregnancy test and confirm the possibility.
Or keep running, pretending nothing happened.
But I knew the second option was gone.
I'd thrown up that badly last night, and this morning the smell of coffee Porter slipped under the door made me want to heave—this wasn't some ordinary stomach bug.
I took a deep breath and turned on the faucet.
Cold water hit my face, bone-chilling.
Before I could decide anything, I needed to look like a human being again.
I washed my face, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and changed into clean clothes—a dark green knit sweater and black lounge pants.
I checked the mirror.
Passable.
When I opened the door, the conversation in the living room stopped.
Sergei stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, back to me, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. He wore the dark blue sweater—the one I'd knitted, the charcoal contrast at the collar clear in the morning light.
Bogdan stood by the sofa, holding a folder. When he saw me, he nodded.
"Miss Collins. Morning."
"Morning."
Sergei turned around.
We looked at each other across the living room.
His face was expressionless, but something I couldn't name lived in those gray eyes—exhaustion, worry, and a careful caution.
Misha ran over from the kitchen, circling my feet twice, tail wagging like a propeller.
I crouched down and hugged him.
"Misha." I buried my face in her fur and breathed in.
She must have been out in the sun—Misha's coat smelled warm and toasty.
Safe. Warm.
"Bogdan," Sergei said. "You can go."
"Yes."
Bogdan picked up the folder and headed for the door. When he passed me, he paused.
"Good to see you're feeling better, Miss Collins."
I looked up and managed a smile.
"Thanks."
The door closed.
Just the two of us left in the living room. And Misha.
Sergei didn't move.
Neither did I.
We stood there, about ten feet apart, neither of us speaking first.
Outside, Manhattan woke up in the morning light, traffic beginning to fill the streets.
"How are you feeling?" he finally broke the silence.
"Better. The medicine worked."
"Have you eaten?"
"Not yet."
"Want me to make you something?" he asked, his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but didn't quite manage it.
The offer eased the tension a fraction.
"What can you make?" I asked.
"Eggs," he said. "Though you said I cook them like coal."
I couldn't help but laugh.
"Then I'll do it myself. Don't want your kitchen catching fire."
"I'm not that bad."
"You are."
He finally smiled, really smiled, creases forming at the corners of his eyes.
"Fine," he said. "You cook. I'll help."
We walked into the kitchen together.
He pulled eggs from the fridge while I cracked them. Oil sizzled in the pan, butter filling the air with its rich scent.
Misha lay in the kitchen doorway, head on the floor, eyes half-closed, but her tail still wagging softly.
"Turn the heat down," I said.
Sergei lowered the flame a notch.
"When you flip it, be quick. Or it'll burn."
He picked up the spatula and, under my guidance, clumsily flipped the egg.
It didn't burn.
Golden, edges slightly crisp, but not black.
"You did it," I said, genuinely surprised.
"You sound shocked," he said, glancing at me, that curve at the corner of his mouth that made my heart skip.
I joked. "Well, it's my boss cooking. I was prepared to eat coal and pretend to love it."
There we were, standing in the kitchen, making breakfast together. Like a normal couple on a Saturday morning, doing the most couple-like things.
But we weren't.
The thought stuck in me like a thorn.
When breakfast was on the table, I sat across from him.
Eggs, toast, orange juice.
Simple, but enough.
I cut a small piece of egg and put it in my mouth.
Better than last time, at least.
No "this is coal" vibes.
"How is it?" He watched me.
"Passing."
He raised an eyebrow. "Just passing?"
"Okay, fine. Good."
He nodded, satisfied, and started eating.
We ate quietly, only the sound of silverware on porcelain and the occasional car horn outside.
Sergei put down his fork, leaned back, and looked at me.
"Ella," he said, his tone turning serious. "Last night—you need to go to the hospital."
My hand froze mid-air.
"What?"
"You were in so much pain last night. That's not normal. And you've barely eaten anything these past few days. I need to make sure you haven't—" He paused. "—damaged your stomach or something else."
"I don't need to go to the hospital," I said, setting down my fork. "I was just tired, and my stomach hurt. That's all."
Sergei frowned disapprovingly. "Ella."
"I said I don't need to!" My voice rose, then I realized I'd overreacted and took a breath. "Sorry, I just... I really don't want to go to the hospital."
He stared at me for a few seconds.
"Why?"
"Because—" I couldn't come up with a reason. "Because I don't like hospitals."
"You don't like hospitals, so you'd rather suffer?"
"I'm not suffering. I'm better now!"
"You're better?" He cut me off, anger clear in his voice. "Look at yourself, Ella. You're skin and bones, white as paper, shaking when you walk!"
"I'm not shaking—"
"Ella, stop being stubborn!"
He stood, walked over, and leaned down, hands gripping the armrests of my chair, trapping me.
"Listen," he said, each word sharp. "You're going to the hospital today. This isn't a request."
"Is that an order?"
"Yes."
We locked eyes.
His were filled with unyielding determination.
And me—
I couldn't go to the hospital.
Not now.
If I went, the doctor would run tests, draw blood, and everything would come out.
"Sergei," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I don't want to go. Please."
He looked at me, his frown deepening.
"Why are you fighting this so hard?"
"I just—"
BANG!
A loud crash from the living room.
We both turned.
Misha stood by the coffee table, tail tucked tight, ears flat, those big brown eyes staring innocently at us.
At her feet—
The white vase lay shattered.
That antique vase Sergei brought back from Russia. I'd seen it before, carefully dusted it when I cleaned.
Now it was in pieces, scattered across the carpet.
"Shit," Sergei muttered.
He straightened and strode toward Misha.
My heart clenched.
Would he get angry?
Would he yell at Misha?
Misha had already made herself small, tail tucked tighter, ears completely flat against her head, eyes full of fear.
She knew she'd messed up.
Sergei stopped in front of her.
Misha let out a tiny whimper, body shrinking back.
I couldn't help myself. "Sergei, Misha didn't—"
Before I could finish, Sergei sighed.
Not the anger I expected. More like resignation.
He crouched down, eye level with Misha.
"It's okay," he said softly, reaching out to pet Misha's head. "It's just a vase."
Misha didn't dare lift his head, just peeked up through her lashes.
"Really, it's okay," Sergei said, continuing to rub her head. "You didn't mean it."
Misha's tail gave a tentative wag.
"Yeah, that's it," Sergei said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "You're fine."
Misha's tail wagged faster, her whole body relaxing as she pressed her head into Sergei's palm, making little huffing sounds.
I stood by the table, watching.
Sergei Volkov, the man who'd just killed someone yesterday, the Pakhan feared by his entire family, was crouched on the floor, gently comforting a dog who'd broken an antique vase.
He wasn't angry.
He didn't scold.
He was even smiling.
"Don't move," he told Misha, then stood and headed to the kitchen. "There's glass everywhere. You'll cut your paws."
He grabbed a broom and dustpan and crouched down to clean up.
"Let me help—" I started over.
"No," he held up a hand, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Stay back. These pieces are sharp."
I stopped where I was and watched him.
His movements were practiced, clearly not his first time doing this. He swept the big chunks together first, then carefully picked them up and placed them in the dustpan, finally using a wet paper towel to wipe up every tiny sliver of glass from the carpet.
The whole time, he was focused, brow slightly furrowed, like he was handling something important.
"That vase," I said. "It was expensive, wasn't it?"
"A little," he said without looking up. "My mother bought it when she was young."
My heart skipped.
"And you're—you're not angry?"
He glanced up at me, then kept cleaning. "She didn't do it on purpose."
He stood, dumped the broken pieces in the trash, then crouched back down beside Misha.
"Come here."
Misha carefully walked over.
Sergei turned her over and checked her paws, one by one, making sure none were cut.
"You're fine," he said, releasing Misha. "Just be more careful next time."