Page 135 of Beautiful Secrets
Christ, my palms are even sweaty.
I don’t bother answering the intercom because I know who it is. But I regret that decision when I see a Russian bastard with dead eyes and a stony face standing in front of my door.
I moved into a studio apartment after I came out of the hospital. Would have stayed in the penthouse but I’m not a fucking billionaire, so I decided to scale down.
Plus, I’m giving money to shit that I’d never bargained I’d ever have to worry about. Pills to keep my ticker ticking. Offshore investments.
A college fund.
And don’t forget the ring. The one burning a hole through my fucking pocket right this second.
“The fuck you doing here?” I crane to look past Lev. “Where is she?”
“Here,” comes a breathless voice—arriving a second before the woman herself. “Took the stairs,” she says when she sees my aghast expression.
“The elevator broken?” I’m already halfway down the hall to see for myself.
Fucking super’s gonna get a mouthful, making my pregnant—
“It’s not broken,” Mika calls after me. “I need the exercise.”
I turn on my heel, directing my frown at Mika. “You’re four months pregnant, Mika. Exercise is the last thing you need.”
She rolls her eyes at me and sidesteps when I try and touch her. When I move my gaze to Lev, he stiffens and drops her bags by the door.
“I tried to stop her,” he says as he passes me en-route back to the elevator.
“Next time, try harder.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
My frown deepens. “What?”
Lev makes a point of looking at the bags at the door. “That’s the last of it.”
And then he’s gone.
The last of it.
My body feels twenty pounds lighter when I step inside the apartment, despite the fact that Mika’s bags weigh at least fifty.
That’s it.
I can’t believe it’s finally happening.
Mika is standing in the middle of the apartment with her back to me, scanning the space. I come up behind her and slide my hands around her, stroking her belly until she stills my hands with hers.
“Are you hungry?” I murmur into her ear.
“You ask me that every time I arrive,” she says, turning in my arms and giving me a severe expression. “Do I look skinny to you?”
“So you’re not hungry?”
Her mouth moves to the side, her crystalline blue eyes narrowing dangerously.
It’s a warning, but screw it—I’ve fucked up enough times already to know that there’s no check my mouth can write that my tongue can’t cash.
“I ordered a pizza.”
