Page 46 of Porcelain Vows

“What’s wrong?” I ask, frowning.

No answer. Just that vacant stare at the ceiling.

Blyad!

Is she sick?

The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. I try again, leaning closer. “Stella, what’s going on?”

She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at me. Her stillness is unnerving. I touch her arm, but she flinches as if my touch burns her.

This is fucking bullshit.

“Are you feeling okay? Is it the baby?” I ask, pushing down a surge of anxiety.

Finally, she turns her head to look at me. Her eyes are cold, distant. There’s something in them I can’t quite read— fear? Anger? Confusion? Whatever it is, I don’t fucking like it.

“I have to get out of here,” she says, her voice flat and emotionless.

Khrén yey!

The hell she is!

“That’s not an option. It’s not safe for you or the baby. She could come any moment.”

She doesn’t respond, just turns her gaze back to the ceiling. I sit there, mind reeling. What the fuck happened? Everything was fine last night, and now…

Last night.

Her warm body pressed against mine. Her sighs in my ear as I moved inside her. The way she whispered my name. And then, in the early hours, her screams as she woke from a nightmare she couldn’t— or wouldn’t— describe.

Had something happened then? Some memory resurfacing?

“Stella.” I keep my voice gentle, though every instinct is urging me to shake the truth out of her. “Did you remember something? About your past?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition. Her eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, as if the answers are written there in a language only she can read.

I stand up, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “I’ll come back later,” I say softly, trying not to sound as anxious as I feel. “Try to rest.”

As the door clicks shut behind me, my mind races through possibilities. She was fine yesterday.

And now she’s a stranger. A shell.

I pull out my phone again, dialing Dr. Malhotra. He answers on the third ring, voice clipped and professional.

“Mr. Tarasov. What can I do for you?”

“It’s Stella.” I pace the hallway outside her room. “Something’s wrong. She’s… not responding. Barely speaking. When she does, she says she needs to leave.”

“Has she experienced any physical symptoms? Pain, bleeding, contractions?”

“No. Nothing like that. She’s just… gone. Mentally.”

He sighs, the sound crackling through the connection. “As I explained this morning, Ms. Fermont’s condition is complex. The brain doesn’t heal in a linear fashion. She may experience periods of dissociation or withdrawal.”

“This isn’t withdrawal,” I snap. “This is like she’s become a different person overnight.”

“Memory loss can manifest in unexpected ways, especially as pregnancy hormones fluctuate. The approaching delivery could be triggering subconscious anxieties.”

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