Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ella
The car pulled up in front of a building on Manhattan's Upper East Side that looked more like a five-star hotel than anything else.
Glass facade, revolving doors, uniformed doorman standing at the entrance. I peered through the window at the building, confused. "Where are—"
"New York Presbyterian Hospital VIP wing," Sergei said, killing the engine. "My private doctor's here."
Private doctor.
Of course.
I should've known. Sergei Volkov wasn't about to take me to some public hospital where you waited three hours.
The doorman pulled open the car door. I stepped out. Cold air hit me immediately. I hunched my shoulders. Sergei came around the hood, hand settling on my lower back.
"Let's go."
The lobby looked more like a high-end hotel reception—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, air scented faintly with aromatherapy, not disinfectant. Behind the reception desk stood two well-dressed women who immediately flashed professional smiles when they saw Sergei.
"Mr. Volkov, good afternoon."
"Afternoon," Sergei said. "Appointment with Dr. Levinson."
"Yes, it's confirmed," the receptionist tapped at her computer. "Please proceed directly to the fifteenth floor, room 1503. The doctor's expecting you."
The elevator was the spacious kind with mirrored walls, thick carpet that absorbed all sound.
I stood in front of the mirror, looking at myself—cream coat, charcoal scarf, hair a bit messy from the wind outside. Face still pale, shadows under my eyes.
I looked like a patient.
Or rather, like a pregnant woman.
The thought made my stomach clench again.
Sergei's hand covered my shoulder. In the mirror, I could see him standing behind me, a full head taller.
"Don't be nervous," he said. "Just routine tests."
"I know," I said, but my fingers kept twisting the strap of my purse.
The elevator doors opened.
The fifteenth-floor hallway looked nothing like a hospital.
Dark wood paneling, soft lighting, deep burgundy carpet, oil paintings on the walls—not cheap prints, actual oil paintings where you could see the brushstrokes.
The hallway was quiet. No other patients visible, just the occasional passing nurse in white uniforms, footsteps light.
1503 was at the end of the hall.
Sergei knocked.
"Come in." A woman's voice from inside, faint Eastern European accent.
He pushed the door open.
The room was a suite. The outer area served as a sitting room—leather sofas, coffee table with fresh flowers and newspapers, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a corner of Central Park.
A female doctor in her fifties stood by the window, white coat over elegant clothes, dark brown hair swept into a sophisticated bun. She turned, revealing a warm smile.
"Sergei, it's been a while."
"Dr. Levinson. This is Ella Collins."
"Hello, Miss Collins." She shook my hand, palm warm. "Call me Rachel. Please, sit."
We settled on the sofa. Rachel picked up a tablet.
"Sergei mentioned the basics on the phone—persistent nausea, stomach pain, and fatigue?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
"About a week, maybe a little more."
"When is the nausea worst?"
"Mornings," I said. "Especially around coffee, or greasy food."
She made notes on the tablet, then looked up at me, gaze calm. "Last period?"
Here it was.
"December seventh."
She calculated. "About six weeks." She set down the tablet, looking at me, eyes gentle. "Miss Collins, based on your symptoms and cycle, we need to run comprehensive tests. Blood work, urine test, and possibly an ultrasound if necessary."
"How long will it take?" Sergei asked.
"Blood and urine results take about an hour," Rachel said. "We can decide about the ultrasound after those come back."
She stood. "Miss Collins, please come with me."
I stood. Sergei stood too.
"I'll come with you."
"You don't have to," I said too quickly. "I can handle it."
He frowned.
"Really, you don't have to," I tried to make my smile look natural. "It's just bloodwork. Wait here, I'll be fine."
Rachel stood nearby, face wearing a knowing smile. "Mr. Volkov, you can wait here. We'll be quick."
Sergei looked at me, finally nodding.
The exam room was warmer than I'd expected—walls in soft beige, warm lighting, a vase of lilies on the small table beside the exam bed.
Urine test, blood draw. Everything happened in silence.
Rachel's movements were gentle. When the needle pierced my skin, I closed my eyes.
Bright red blood flowed through the thin tube into the vial.
"Done," she said, withdrawing the needle, pressing a cotton ball to the puncture. "Keep your arm elevated, press for three minutes."
She labeled the vial, then sat beside me. Didn't rush off.
"Miss Collins," her tone was gentle, carrying that quality that made you want to confide in her. "You seem very tense."
"I'm just worried about the results."
"Your symptoms," she said, gaze resting on my face, "preliminary assessment suggests it's not simple gastritis. Nausea, fatigue, delayed cycle—is there a possibility you're pregnant?"
My heart skipped.
"I... I'm not sure."
She looked into my eyes. The kind of look only a doctor who'd seen this too many times could have—gentle, non-judgmental, quietly understanding.
"Of course, we'll need the test results to know for certain," she said softly. "But Miss Collins, I want to ask you something."
"What?"
"If the result does confirm pregnancy," she said, voice dropping lower, like sharing a secret, "are you ready for the gentleman outside to know?"
My eyes suddenly stung.
"I... I'm not ready."
She nodded, as if she'd expected that answer all along.
"I understand," she patted the back of my hand, standing. "The results should be ready in about an hour. I'll call you directly—your cell phone, not through reception, and I won't tell anyone else."
"Thank you," I said, voice hoarse. "Really, thank you."
"Don't mention it," she walked to the door, turning back with a smile.
When I returned to the outer room, Sergei was standing by the window on a call, speaking Russian, tone cold. Hearing the door, he hung up immediately.
"How'd it go?"
"Blood's drawn," I said. "Results in an hour."
"Then we wait."
He pulled me to sit on the sofa, took my arm, his fingers pressing the cotton ball, pressure just right.
"I can do it myself."
"Don't move."
We sat like that. Him pressing the puncture on my arm, me looking out at Manhattan. The sky was gray, looked like snow.
Time crawled. Every minute felt stretched.
I stared at the clock on the coffee table, watching the minute hand jump forward, tick by tick. My palms were sweating.
The secret hung at the back of my throat, ready to burst out any second.
Fifty minutes later, the door opened.
Rachel stood in the doorway, looking apologetic.
"Mr. Volkov, Miss Collins, I'm terribly sorry—the lab's blood analyzer malfunctioned. They're working on emergency repairs."
What?
"Earliest it'll be fixed is five o'clock this afternoon," she said. "I'm very sorry, this is extremely rare."
Sergei stood, voice turning cold. "This is the level of service you guaranteed me."
"I know, I'm very sorry," Rachel didn't back down, tone still professional. "If you'd like, I can arrange for Miss Collins to go to another hospital—"
"No need," he said. "We'll stay here. Five o'clock, I want those results."
"Understood," Rachel nodded, then turned to me, eyes carrying a hint of understanding only I could read. "Miss Collins, you can go home and rest. Around five this afternoon, I'll contact you through the method you provided."
I stood, still dazed.
The machine broke.
I had a few more hours.
"Okay, thank you."
Rachel walked us to the door. She squeezed my hand, a gentle press.
"Don't worry," she said in a voice only we could hear. "Everything will be alright."
On the drive back, I stared out the window the whole time.
Manhattan's streets looked blurred under the gray-white sky. Snow hadn't started yet, but the air already tasted like it.
Back at the apartment, Misha greeted us at the door, immediately rushing over when she saw me.
"Misha," I crouched down to hug her, burying my face in her fur.
Her warmth, her scent, calmed me a little.
"Did you miss me?"
She licked my face.
Sergei took off his coat in the entryway. "I have some work to handle in the study."
"Okay."
He went into the study, door closing behind him.
I stood alone in the living room.
The apartment was quiet except for the occasional sound from the heating pipes.
I stood there for a moment, then started pacing.
From living room to hallway, hallway to kitchen, back to living room.
Misha followed me, lap after lap.
She probably thought I was playing some game.
But I wasn't.
I just—
I didn't know what to do.
I tried sitting on the sofa, but the second my butt touched the cushion, I stood back up.
Couldn't sit still.
I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looked at the snow outside.
Watched for less than a minute, then turned away.
My phone sat on the coffee table. I stared at it like it was a ticking time bomb.
Five o'clock.
Rachel said she'd call at five.
It was only two-oh-five.
Two hours and fifty-five minutes left.
Damn it.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down.
Do something.
Had to do something to distract myself.
Right.
Misha's clothes.
That vest I'd been meaning to make.
I hurried to the bedroom, pulled out the fabric bag from the closet—materials, cotton thread, needles, and the pattern I'd sketched and revised several times.
Carried it back to the living room and spread everything on the coffee table.
Deep red wool, smoke-gray piping, and all the tools.
Good.
Focus on this.
Don't think about that call.
I sat down, picked up the ruler, started measuring the fabric.
But my hands were shaking.
The ruler kept sliding across the fabric. Couldn't get an accurate measurement.
"Damn it," I muttered, setting down the ruler, bracing my hands on the coffee table.
Misha came over, rested her head on my knee, those amber eyes looking at me with concern.