Page 11 of Twisted Addiction
“I abandoned you for four months, yes. It’s my way of breaking you with solitude and loneliness—molding you until you’re utterly mine. But there’s no world where I’d know you’re carrying my child and not claim you immediately. I am heartless, Penelope, but not when it comes to what’s mine. You’d be under my watch, every breath, every heartbeat monitored. I’d never let you slip away like that.”
I fumbled in my pocket instinctively, as if I could pull out my phone and shove the evidence in his face—but it was back at the house, useless now. “I’m not imagining things, and I’m not mad. I know what I saw, what I read.”
He reached out, his fingers gentle yet insistent as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering too long, tracing the shell possessively.
“It’s no secret I’ll keep breaking you,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the windshield, “until there’s nothing left but the part of you that clings to me... needs me.” His voice dipped, darker. “But there are lines even I don’t cross.”
Then he stepped out, leaving me no choice but to follow, my mind reeling.
This man was making me doubt my own sanity. I was a hundred percent sure of those heart-wrenching texts, yet here he was, denying them with such conviction it gnawed at my resolve.
We walked into the private clinic side by side, the automatic doors whispering open to reveal a sterile lobby bathed in soft, clinical light.
A doctor approached immediately—a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses, his white coat impeccably pressed.
“Mr. Volkov,” he greeted with a nod of familiarity, his tone deferential, as if Dmitri were a regular benefactor or something more intimidating. “Always a pleasure. And this must be your wife. How can I assist today?”
Dmitri placed a possessive hand on the small of my back, steering me forward. “Dr. Rossi, my wife needs immediate tests. Pregnancy confirmation and any complications. No delays.”
I swallowed, my throat dry as I explained under the doctor’s kind but probing gaze. “I’ve been... bleeding. It started heavily before I was taken, and now it’s happening again—thick, clotted, not like my normal period. I’m terrified I’ve lost the baby, or that something’s wrong.”
Dr. Rossi nodded thoughtfully, jotting notes on his tablet. “Spotting or heavier bleeding in early pregnancy can indicate several issues—possibly a threatened miscarriage, where theplacenta is detaching partially, or even an ectopic pregnancy if the implantation is outside the uterus. We’ll need blood work for hCG levels, an ultrasound to check viability, and perhaps a pelvic exam. Let’s get you to the exam room right away.”
He led us down a quiet hallway, but Dmitri’s hand tightened on my arm, his eyes scanning every corner as if threats lurked in the shadows.
“Mr. Volkov, would you mind stepping out?” the doctor asked carefully.
Dmitri didn’t even blink. “No one touches her without my eyes on them.” His voice was laced with that obsessive edge, like I was a priceless artifact he couldn’t risk losing.
Dr. Rossi hesitated but nodded, accustomed to Dmitri’s demands.
In the exam room, I changed into a gown behind a screen, my heart pounding as the doctor prepared the ultrasound machine.
Dmitri stood like a sentinel in the corner, arms crossed, his gaze never leaving me—intense, proprietary, as if even this medical intrusion was a violation he tolerated only for my sake.
The tests were quick but invasive: blood drawn, the cold gel on my abdomen for the transabdominal ultrasound, then the more uncomfortable transvaginal probe to get a clearer view.
Dmitri’s jaw tightened during it all, his fists clenching at his sides, but he said nothing, just watched with that unyielding possessiveness.
Afterward, we returned to a private waiting area—a plush room with leather chairs and muted lighting.
I sat rigidly, refusing to look at Dmitri, my arms wrapped around myself. Anger simmered beneath the surface, but nervousness clawed at me harder—what if the baby was gone? What if this was the end of everything? My foot tapped incessantly, betraying my fear.
Barely thirty minutes later, Dr. Rossi returned, clipboard in hand, his expression grave.
I bolted upright, heart hammering so violently it felt like it would shatter my ribs. “What is it? Is the baby okay?”
He motioned for me to sit, but my legs refused to obey.
“Mrs. Volkov, the ultrasound shows the fetus is still viable. Heartbeat detected, approximately sixteen weeks along,” he said, his voice steady but serious. “However, you’re experiencing a subchorionic hematoma—a pocket of blood between the uterine wall and the chorionic membrane. It’s causing the bleeding and, given its size, it puts the pregnancy at high risk.”
My chest tightened.
“More concerning,” he continued, “your uterus is bicornuate—a congenital malformation. Essentially, it’s heart-shaped, divided into two ‘horns.’ This reduces space for the fetus to grow and significantly increases the risk of miscarriage.”
The words landed like a hammer to my skull.
“The fetus is implanted in the smaller horn,” he said gently, “which isn’t capable of supporting a full-term pregnancy. We recommend termination to prevent severe complications—massive hemorrhage, uterine rupture, or even life-threatening outcomes. Without intervention, the bleeding will likely continue because of both the hematoma and the poor implantation.”
