Page 62 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

I nod curtly and brush past him, heading for the penthouse door.

I catch Oksana murmuring something to the guards as I stride past them, though I don’t catch what she says. Apologizing for my outburst, probably.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I let out a breath.

The penthouse is quiet. Roman isn’t back yet, and the silence feels heavy. I stand in the entryway for a moment, clutching the small white bag in my hand.

Oksana appears at my elbow. “Do you want me to stay?”

I shake my head. “I need to do this alone.”

She nods, her expression understanding. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

I watch her walk away; then I turn toward the bathroom. Okay. I can do this. This is it. This is the moment that will change everything.

I close the bathroom door behind me and lean against it, letting the cool wood press into my back. The bag feels heavy in my hand.

I take a deep breath. Then another. Then I reach into the bag and pull out the test.

I stare at the box in my hands. The instructions are simple: hold the absorbent tip in your urine stream for five seconds, then replace the cap. Place the test on a flat surface. Wait three minutes.

Three minutes. That’s all it takes to change everything.

I’ve done this dozens of times before. I used to buy tests in bulk, hiding them in the bottom of my shopping cart like they were something shameful. Nobody knew I took them so routinely.

Now, standing in this bathroom with the test in my hand, I wonder if Dmitri was lying. Only one way to find out.

My hands are shaking as I follow the instructions. I hold the absorbent tip in place, counting the seconds in my head. I replace the cap and set the test on the counter, face down so I can’t see the window.

Three minutes.

I sit down on the edge of the bathtub and wait.

The bathroom is quiet. I can hear my own breathing, rapid and shallow.

Oksana is moving around somewhere in the hall. Pacing, maybe. I don’t blame her. I wonder what she’s thinking. Is she as nervous as I am?

Probably not. Oksana has seen a lot in her years with the Volkonsky family. A pregnancy test probably doesn’t even register on her scale of concerning things.

Two minutes.

I stand up and pace the small bathroom, my feet wearing a path in the tile floor. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and quickly turn away.

One minute.

I pick up the test and hold it in my hand, feeling the weight of it. The plastic is cool against my palm. I take a deep breath and turn it over.

Two pink lines glow up at me. I look at the test for a long time. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror above the sink, pale and wide-eyed.

I’m pregnant. I’m carrying Roman’s child.

The nausea that’s been plaguing me for days surges up without warning, and I barely make it to the toilet before I’m sick. I gag, hands clenched into fists and eyes squeezed shut.

When it’s over, I flush and wash my face, trying to calm my racing heart.

I sink down onto the bathroom floor, my back against the cool tile wall, and let the test slip from my fingers. It lands face up on the mat beside me, those two pink lines still visible.

I don’t know how long I sit there. It could be minutes. It could be hours. Time seems to have lost all meaning, replaced by the endless loop of thoughts spinning through my head.