Page 81 of Imperfect Desires

“You were always meant to be mine, Alina,” he whispers. “And I don’t let what’s mine go.”

He’s pacing again.

Not frantically, but with that same smug calculation he wears like a second skin. One hand behind his back, the other gesturing like he’s giving a speech no one asked for.

“Well,” he says with theatrical satisfaction, “at least now we know. No more lies. No more drama. You’re pregnant. And that makes things simple.”

Simple.

I nearly laugh.

There is nothing simple about the hell I’m in.

“I’ll have Henaro run the dates tomorrow,” he continues. “We’ll confirm how far along you are, and then…” He waves a hand, as if the life growing inside me is just an inconvenient clause in a contract. “We’ll handle it.”

My mouth goes dry. “Handle it?”

He turns toward me, smile fading, expression hardening. “Don’t act stupid. We both know this pregnancy ends tomorrow.”

A tremble runs through me.

No. No. No.

This is mine. This baby is all I have left of Lev. Of that night. Of something real in a world built on blood and lies.

I move a step back before I can stop myself.

His eyes flash, and he closes the distance just as fast, his hand catching my wrist—not cruelly, but firmly. Like a man claiming what he believes is already his.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” he says gently.

I flinch at the gentleness. It’s more terrifying than anger. Because it’s not kindness—it’s delusion. He truly believes this. Believes that wiping out my child, rewriting my past, and making me his bride is something righteous. Logical.

“Once your little secret is erased, we’ll start over.” His eyes soften in a way that curdles my stomach. “You’ll wear white. I’ve already picked the dress. You’ll look perfect walking toward me.”

My breath shudders out of me, and his voice hardens. “Don’t fight me on this, Alina. I’ve waited long enough to rise. You were wasted on some street soldier in a back-alley marriage that no one even knows about. But me? I can give you more. I will give you more. Power. Legacy. My name.”

I say nothing.

He gives me one last look, like he expects gratitude. Then he turns and walks out, the door locking behind him with a mechanical click.

As soon as I’m alone, I crumble to the floor. I fold over my stomach, wrapping both arms around it protectively. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away. Don’t cry. Not now. Crying won’t save you.

I whisper against my skin. “Please… please hold on.”

And then, barely louder than breath, I say the only name that comes to my lips.

“Lev.”

The next morning comes in pieces—no windows, no sun. Just the echo of footsteps outside my door and the hollow beat of my heart in the quiet.

I haven’t slept. I couldn’t. My hand has been resting over my belly all night like a shield, as if that alone could stop what’s coming.

A knock. Then the door opens.

Mendes steps in, impeccably dressed in a navy suit like he’s heading to a board meeting instead of orchestrating the dismantling of my life.

“I trust you’re ready,” he says, smiling. “The doctor will meet us at the clinic. It’s a private one—quiet, discreet. No one will bother us.”

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