Page 76 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

"This way, Sir," a maid squeaks, gesturing down a hallway.

I follow, Zara's shallow breaths ghosting against my neck. At last, we reach the living room. Dim golden light spills from ornate sconces, casting long shadows across the plush carpet.

The doctor turns as I enter, his lined face grave. "Put her here," he instructs, indicating a chaise lounge.

As I gently lay Zara down, my eyes are drawn to the array of medical equipment dominating the room. Hulking machines loom in the corners, brought in by our men, their screens glowing an eerie blue. A steady electronic hum fills the air, setting my teeth on edge.

I brush a strand of hair from Zara's forehead, my hand trembling. "Hold on, moya lyubov," I whisper. "Just hold on."

My hands tremble as I carefully arrange a plush pillow beneath her head. Her face is so pale, her usually vibrant features now slack and lifeless. I can't tear my eyes away from her, terrified that if I look elsewhere for even a moment, she might slip away from me forever. The blood on her jeans only grows darker, more permanent.

"Doctor," I say, my voice rough with emotion, "she's pregnant." The words taste like ashes in my mouth. "Was pregnant," I correct myself, the weight of loss already settling heavily on my shoulders.

The doctor's eyebrows lift slightly, but he maintains his professional demeanor. "I see. How far along?"

"About twelve weeks," I reply, my fingers intertwining with Zara's limp ones. "Will she… will she be okay?"

"Let's assess the situation first," the doctor says, his tone clipped but not unkind. He moves toward Zara with practiced efficiency, his weathered hands gentle as he begins his examination.

I watch, barely breathing, as he checks her pulse, listens to her breathing, and palpates her abdomen. The room feels suffocating, the ticking of an antique clock on the mantle marking each agonizing second.

"Her vitals are stable," the doctor murmurs, more to himself than to me. He turns to one of the machines, wheeling it closer. "I'm going to check for a fetal heartbeat."

My own heart clenches. "But surely after the trauma—"

"Let's not jump to conclusions," he interrupts, his eyes meeting mine with surprising kindness. "Miracles do happen, Mr. Zolotov."

As he applies gel to Zara's stomach and positions the ultrasound wand, I find myself holding my breath. The room fills with static, and then…

A rapid, rhythmic whooshing fills the room. My heart leaps into my throat.

"Is that…?" I can barely form the words.

The doctor nods, a small smile playing on his lips. "That's your baby's heartbeat, Mr. Zolotov. Strong and steady."

Relief floods through me, but it's quickly chased by a surge of anxiety. "But she's still unconscious. And there was so much blood…"

"Sir," the doctor says, his voice firm but gentle. "Zara is still pregnant. The baby's heartbeat is strong, which is an excellent sign. What she went through is an occurrence called a partial placenta displacement. Many times, the pregnancy is terminated, but hers has survived. Rejoice in that. However, we need to prioritize Zara's well-being right now. Her body has undergone significant trauma."

I nod, unable to tear my eyes away from Zara's pale face. "What do we need to do?"

The doctor's expression grows serious. "We need to monitor her closely. There's a risk of complete placental abruption, which could endanger both Zara and the baby."

My fingers tighten around Zara's hand. "Placental abruption? What does that mean?"

"It's when the placenta partially or completely separates from the uterus wall," he explains. "It can be caused by trauma, like what Zara experienced."

I swallow hard, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. "But you can fix it, right? You can save them both?"

The doctor takes a deep breath. "Mr. Zolotov, I want to be clear. Zara and the baby are stable right now, but we're not out of the woods yet. The next 24 hours will be critical. Beyond that, she will require three months of complete bed rest. Must she move, it will be via a wheelchair, but I would advise against that too."

***

The doctor's words echo in my mind as I watch Zara's chest rise and fall. Relief washes over me, but it's tainted by a gnawing fear that claws at my insides. My mind replays the events of the night, each moment a knife twisting in my gut.

The gunshots. The blood. Zara's scream.

I close my eyes, feeling the weight of my choices pressing down on me. How close did I come to losing everything? My fingers trace the curve of Zara's cheek, her skin cool beneath my touch.

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