Page 37 of Nine Months to Bear
My instant relief is swallowed by anxiety at the realization that I’m going to have to face him now.
I wait for his voice to fill the room, for that Russian-tinged baritone that makes my hair stand on end.
But there’s only silence.
Mikayla frowns. Presses the button again. Nothing.
She stands in a single fluid motion and floats ethereally toward the inner office door. “One moment, please.”
I catch a glimpse of Stefan’s office through the gap as she slips inside—expansive windows overlooking the city, a massive desk of what appears to be a single, unbroken slab of black marble shot through with veins of gold.
But I see what’s in there even before she returns: Nothing. The desk chair is vacant. He’s not here.
Mikayla reappears a moment later. Her face betrays nothing. “Mr. Safonov has been called away. Family emergency.”
“He has family?” The words are out of my mouth before I can reel them back. I blow out a breath, trying to steady myself, failing, charging forward anyway. “Sorry. Never mind. Will he be back?”
“Uncertain.” She folds her hands in front of her waist. “If there’s anything you’d like to leave for him, I can pass it along.”
Her non-answer is answer enough. It’s none of my business where Stefan Safonov is and I shouldn’t linger.
Begone, thot. Away with thee.
My skin prickles with humiliation as I extract the specimen cup from my purse. Mikayla-Bot 3000 accepts it and the instruction sheet with the indifference of someone who’s handled far stranger requests.
I wonder what else those hands have passed to Stefan Safonov. Drugs? Weapons? Millions of dollars in unmarked, nonsequential bills?
Her lips—painted with a very chic blood-red lipstain—twitch. Not quite a smile. Not even close, really. “I’ll inform him you came by, Dr. Aster.”
I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from my skirt. “Please do. And remind him the… the sample has a shelf life. So please get it back to me quickly.”
I turn and leave before I can see how she handlesthatlittle tidbit.
The walk of shame back to the elevator stretches into infinity. What am I doing? Volunteering myself as the surrogate for a man who couldn’t possibly think any less of me?
A man whose touch at the shooting range is still simmering on my skin three days later?
A man who couldn’t even show up for this meeting, but is supposed to show up for our child?
No—hischild.
Not ours. Not mine.
His.
The elevator doors slide open, and I nearly collide with a dark-haired man built like a freight train. Taras, Stefan’s shadow. I saw him briefly at Stefan’s estate. His expression shifts from surprise to something harder when he recognizes me.
“Dr. Aster.” His accent is thicker than Stefan’s, rougher around the edges. “Thepakhanis not here.”
Pakhan.The word percolates between us, foreign and dangerous. I’ve heard it before, in whispered conversations at charity galas, in badly sourced tabloid articles.
I’ve got enough context to know that it means something along the lines of “Russian mob boss.”
I’ve got enough common sense to know that it means I should run for my life.
My stomach clenches. Does he assume I already know the gory details?
I guess, in some ways, I do. I have from the start. Willful ignorance isn’t a good excuse. Certainly not legally speaking.
