Page 62 of Sold to the Bratva
He finally breaks the silence.
“How’s Isaac? I’m sorry he couldn’t be here tonight.”
I chew slowly, then swallow. “He’s good. He sends his regrets and promises to be here next time.”
If there is a next time,I can’t help thinking.
He watches me for a moment longer, his gaze unreadable. “And the baby?”
I settle a hand over my belly. The baby shifts as if it knows we’re talking about it.
“He or she could arrive any day,” I say, beaming. “Technically, I’m not due for another three and a half weeks, but the doctor told us to be ready for our little miracle whenever it decides to show.”
“You still haven’t found out the sex?” he asks, sounding distracted.
“We chose to wait until delivery,” I say, bristling for reasons I can’t quite name.
A ghost of a smile flickers across his lips, visible only to someone who knows him as well as I do. “You look healthy.”
“Thanks,” I say, still unsure whether it’s meant as a compliment.
My ankles are swollen, my back aches nonstop, and I cry if I so much as spill juice. Maybe “healthy” is code for “fat,” but I refuse to dwell on it. One more tear trigger is the last thing I need.
Damn Isaac for not being here.
The next course arrives, and he slices into his chicken with slow, deliberate strokes.
“How’s everything at the Kozlov house?”
I hesitate.
It’s not the question that bothers me but the weight behind it. I’ve learned to hear the layers in his voice, the subtle probing. Maybe I’m just hormonal, maybe my mind is spinning scenarios where none exist, but it feels like more than idle curiosity.
“Everyone there is amazing,” I say. “The staff is so caring. And Isaac is such a wonderful husband. I couldn’t be happier.”
Papa nods again, slow and deliberate. “And his business is going well?”
My eyes narrow a fraction. “Why are you really asking?”
He looks at me, really looks at me. His eyes soften, yet something unsettling lingers. “Because I worry, that’s all.”
“I’m about to have a baby, and it’s my husband’s business you’re so worried about?” I ask tightly.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Katya,” he says, backtracking. “I was just making conversation.”
“It doesn’t feel like it,” I push. “You’ve said barely ten words to me for nearly seven months. It’s like you’ve forgotten how to talk to me.”
“Katya…” he begins, but I’m too far gone to let him finish.
“I wish Mama were here,” I say, blinking against the burn behind my eyes. “I’m terrified of labor, of raising a child, of making a million mistakes. If she were here, she’d comfort me, tell me it’s going to be okay. Instead, I have an absent father who apparently couldn’t care less about what I’m going through.”
That shuts him up. He stares at his plate, chastened, and I might feel guilty if I weren’t so angry.
“She would have loved seeing you like this,” he says at last, his whole demeanor softening. “You really are glowing, Katya. You’re strong and unshakable, even inside your fear. She was the same way when she carried you, brave, stubborn, always happy to put me in my place.”
A tear escapes and I swipe it away, hating how fragile I feel. Papa stands, circles the table, and stands beside me.
He takes my hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says softly. “For not being more present the past few months.”
