Page 40 of Nine Months to Bear
Choice. As if Katelyn had a choice. As if any of us did, really. Choosing between death and the last lifeboat is not a choice.
The specimen cup will still be on his desk. Waiting. Like a loaded gun aimed at my life’s work—and at desperate girls like Katelyn.
I won’t be the one to pull the trigger. Not for my mother’s approval. Not for Stefan’s millions. Not even to save my clinic.
This time, when I march through the Safonov Holdings lobby, I don’t spare a second glance to the suited men I pass. I no longer care what they think of me.
The elevator doors open. I plan to breeze past Stefan’s receptionist, take what is mine, and get the hell out of here. But it must be my lucky day, because Mikayla’s desk is empty.
Even better.
I cross to the wooden doors and push. They open easily, unlocked, and I take a couple steps in before I register that the office is no longer empty.
I hear my name, spoken in a breathless rasp.
“Olivia…”
And I freeze, eyes glued to those broad shoulders, locked on the mesmerizing rhythm of his thick bicep. Of his hand, working up and down and up and down on his thick?—
Ohmygod.
This.
Cannot.
Be.
Happening.
17
OLIVIA
I can’t move if my life depended on it.
But Stefan doesn’t startle. Doesn’t even stop. His eyes lock onto mine, dark and knowing, like he’s been waiting. Like this was inevitable.
Like every move he made, every move I made, were just the bends in a road that was always going to bring us here, to this moment, this endless fucking second.
Shame floods my face as I process what I’m witnessing. Stefan Safonov, the picture of cool, calm, and collected, is sitting behind his imposing desk while his hand moves rhythmically beneath it. The cup I left him sits open on the desk’s edge, just in case there were any doubts about what he’s doing beneath the mahogany.
But that’s not the crazy part. The crazy part is what I heard, just before he saw me here.
My name.
“Olivia.”
He moaned my fucking name.
I should back out, apologize, pretend this never happened. Maybe get plastic surgery and change my name and flee the country.
But I do none of that. My feet remain rooted to the spot, my eyes inexplicably drawn to the flex of muscles in his forearm, the slight flush creeping up his neck, the intensity of his gaze that never wavers from mine.
“I’m sorry, I— I didn’t— I came to say—” My voice sputters and fails.
I should leave. I came here to end this, anyway. I should end it now.Go.
“Tell me what?” His voice is rough, hitching in time to the rhythm of his arm. He doesn’t even attempt to hide what he’s doing. Somehow, that self-assurance makes my pulse race faster.
