Page 47 of Nine Months to Bear
Now, with Olivia’s taste still lingering on my tongue, I’m not so sure.
I shut off the water and stand dripping in the silent bathroom. My careful control is slipping, one frigid droplet at a time. Babushka will be happy to hear that.
Like father, like son, after all.
20
OLIVIA
I agreed to be Stefan Safonov’s surrogate.
The fact that we sealed the deal with sex on his desk rather than signatures on paper is just a minor complication. Matter of fact, I’d prefer to ignore that it happened at all.
One time. That’s all it was. One little indiscretion, easily swept under the rug.
No one needs to know. Not my mother. Not Camille. Not whatever nosy reporter keeps printing those pictures of Stefan and me at the gala.
God, the thought of Margaret finding out makes me nauseous. My mother would be horrified if she knew what I’d done. Not the sleeping with Stefan part—she’d probably pull me in for a rare hug if she learned about that.
No, it’s the “offering my services before contracts had been formally signed” that would’ve been the kicker.Thatwould disappoint her.
Didn’t I teach you anything?she’d ask in that shrill, chiding hiss of hers.Didn’t you pay attention for even a second?
But it’s fine. It has to be fine. The chances of conception after a single encounter are slim to none. I would know; I counsel patients on this daily. Conception requires patience.
Yet something feels changed, as if his touch rewired something fundamental inside me. Camille noticed it the moment I walked into the clinic this morning. Her eyes narrowed as she studied me over her coffee cup.
“You look different,” she’d said, her tone suggesting she knew exactly why.
“It’s warm outside.” I was grasping at straws. The morning was mild, at best.
“Hmm” was her only reply, but that single syllable carried volumes of suspicion.
I push thoughts of Stefan aside as I navigate downtown traffic. My mother’s last-minute lunch invitation arrived with her usual impeccable timing—at the exact moment when refusing would require more energy than just going along with what she wanted.
“Just a quick catch-up, darling,” she’d said, as if our interactions are ever casual. Margaret Aster doesn’t do casual. She wouldn’t know casual if it spat in her face.
The restaurant is one of those places where the menu has no prices and the waitstaff judge your outfit the second you walk in the door. I spot her in the center of the restaurant immediately. How could I not? She stands out from a mile away. Perfect posture, meticulous movements, Hermès scarf artfully drapedacross her shoulders, like a high fashion cyborg with way too many post-graduate degrees.
But it’s what sits in front of her that freezes my blood.
The Boston Business Journal, meticulously folded to showcase the article beneath the fold. A new headline, the latest in this week’s ongoing Safonov series:SAFONOV EMERGES FROM SHADOWS: RECLUSIVE BILLIONAIRE’S RARE PUBLIC APPEARANCE RAISES QUESTIONS.
Below it, Stefan and I captured mid-dance, his hand possessively curved around my waist, my face caught in a moment of unguarded laughter. The caption is burned into my retinas from reading and re-reading it all morning.
Safonov with fertility specialist Dr. Olivia Aster. Sources close to both remain tight-lipped about their connection.
What “sources” could they have spoken to? The woman with pink hair and a nose ring who makes my coffee every morning? My UPS guy?
Still, so much for keeping things under wraps.
Mother’s eyes track me as I drop into my seat and lunge for the waiting mimosa. The first sip burns down my throat. Liquid courage. I’ll need about a gallon more of these before I’m ready for this conversation, though.
“You’re late,” she says.
“Traffic was a bear.” In truth, I spent twenty minutes in my car, rehearsing this conversation, trying to load up a vault of as many distractions and misdirections as I could dream up.
Her manicured finger taps the newspaper photo wordlessly.
