Page 3 of Nine Months to Bear
He’s a horror movie with the opening credits already rolling.
Six months ago, Frederick stormed out of my office after I refused to prioritize his semen analysis over the single mothers on my waitlist. It wouldn’t take a formal analysis to show his sample was ninety percent booze and ten percent unearned confidence.
I try to duck so he doesn’t see me. But like my mom, I’ve always had excellent timing. Unfortunately for me, that timing only extends to getting stuck in horrible situations. What happens next is merely another feather in my cap.
Frederick’s bloodshot eyes lock onto mine.
His face contorts into a sneer.
Don’t,I pray silently.Please don’t cause a?—
“Can’t believe you deigned to show your face here.” Frederick’s scoff is a vicious bark, drawing glances from nearby guests as he elbows his beefy way through the crowd. “Figured you’d be too busy playing God with people’s futures.”
I clench my teeth in a smile once again. “And I figured you’d be too busy blaming everyone but your low motility for your problems. Guess we both built some room into our schedules tonight.”
It’s a low blow, but men like Frederick only understand the language of humiliation. Watching my mother reduce her male colleagues to stammering boys in hospital corridors taught me that lesson.
Frederick’s grin curdles. He lurches closer, almost sloshing whiskey onto my thrifted heels. “You think you’re better than me?” His voice rises, drawing all the wrong kind of attention.“That clinic of yours is a joke. Heard your last investor dipped. What’s next—selling your own eggs on Craigslist?”
The insult stings. If he saw my recent search history, he’d know it was under consideration.
My chest burns, but I refuse to flinch. “At least I’ve built something myself. All you do is decide how to divvy up your trust fund.”
“You’re a saucy little bitch with an oversized ego.” Frederick’s hand clamps around my wrist, his fingers digging into my flesh like talons. His breath hits my face, hot and sour with halitosis and liquor. “That’s your problem. You think you’re something special, but you need to learn your place. You need to?—”
“—apologize.”
Silence.
Not just from me—from both of us. Because Frederick and I are equally confused by who spoke. If it wasn’t him and it wasn’t me, then who…?
We turn in unison to see a man looming large over us.
And just like that, the nightmare gets worse.
2
OLIVIA
Even at first glance, I recognize him immediately.
Stefan Safonov.
I’ve never seen the Russian billionaire in person before, but when he does show his face in public, it makes headlines in both the financial and the gossip sections.
The financial part makes sense. His net worth makes Elon Musk look like Oliver Twist.
I’m starting to understand why the gossip section is so keen on him, though. He looks like he was born in his tuxedo. It practically melts around the hard, broad lines of his body. His smile is a scalpel, dazzling and lethal. Even in a room full of wealth, Stefan Safonov radiates a different kind of power.
When it comes to eye-catching clients, he would be the dream. My white whale.
Too bad I’m stuck in this whiskey-soaked disaster instead.
“You were about to apologize to the lady, weren’t you?” Stefan’s question isn’t really a question.
Frederick’s grip loosens on my wrist. “This isn’t your business, pal.”
Stefan tilts his head like no one has ever spoken back to him before. I wouldn’t doubt if that were the case. “Everythingis my business.”
