20. April

20

APRIL

I'm woken up at the ass-crack of dawn by knocks on the door. Insistent knocks. More like a bongo orchestra, really.

"What the actual…?"

I drag myself out of bed, ready to curse whoever has decided to disturb my beauty sleep. When you're nine months pregnant, you need beauty sleep. Preferably up to twelve hours a day.

I yank the door open with the force of a thousand suns. If it's housekeeping again, I swear. "Can I hel?—"

It's not housekeeping.

"April," Matvey greets in his sandpaper voice. "The doctor's here."

An old woman in a white coat pushes past me with a curt nod. Her entourage follows—two younger recruits with bright eyes and just as many manners as their team leader. Or just as few, rather.

Then they start to set up shop.

Several questions crowd my head at once: one, what the fuck? Second, what the fuck ? Third?—

"Ms. Flowers, please undress and lay down."

What the fuck?

I'm tempted to ask what happened to good ol' flowers and chocolate as a seduction technique when Matvey strides in last, bringing up the rear. The door is firmly shut behind his back, as final as a death sentence.

Somehow, I feel like any arguments would fall on deaf ears.

So I walk up to the impromptu examination table. I swallow my rage, duck behind the privacy screen with a flaming glare, and do what I do best: as I'm told.

Doesn't mean they won't hear my teeth gritting from the lobby.

The examination begins. Dr. Whatsherface—which is what I'm calling her, since she couldn't be bothered to say hello, let alone introduce herself—pours a generous amount of gel on my belly. And by "generous," I mean enough to drown a damn elephant. It's about as cold as rubbing bellies with a penguin, and a thousand times more uncomfortable. Not that I've ever rubbed bellies with a penguin, but right now, I think I'd prefer it.

"Mm," Dr. Whatsherface hums eloquently, looking at the screen.

What? I want to scream. "Mm," my kid's still there? "Mm," it pulled a Houdini? "Mm," it's triplets?

But, throughout it all, only one serious question keeps bubbling up in my head:

How dare he?

"Where's Dr. Allan?" I ask out loud to the bustling room.

Crickets.

I try again, thinking maybe my words weren't clear enough. Maybe this privacy screen's actually soundproof. "Where?—"

"Please refrain from talking," Dr. Ass face scolds me. "I need a clear image."

And I need to punch you in the mouth. "Certainly." I smile broadly, dragging out each syllable.

The doctor and crew keep poking around my body. My baby daddy stays on the other side of the privacy screen, still like a statue. I'm tempted to bounce a stress ball off of him to see if that gets a reaction.

"There," Dr. Assface comments at last. "Sex is clearly visible?—"

"And I'd prefer you keep that information to yourself," I cut her off, only remembering to smile at the end. "As my doctor well knows, I'd like to find out at birth. If it's not too much trouble."

Dr. Assface scoffs .

I hope one of these fuckfaces is a dentist, because by the end of this, either my teeth will have ground themselves to dust or I'll have knocked a row out of Nameless Bitch's mouth.

"You're past your due date," Dr. Assface points out eventually. I refrain from clapping my hands. No shit, Sherlock! "You should induce as soon as possible. Or get a C-section."

The ass istants take notes. I take a breath and remind myself murder is frowned upon in all fifty states. "No, thank you."

Dr. Assface finally turns to look at me. My eyes , not my uterus. "Pardon?"

"Is the child showing signs of fetal distress?" I ask innocently.

Dr. Assface looks taken aback. What, you thought this peasant couldn't speak your language? "No."

"Is the child podalic?" I press, pulling out every term I've ever learned from Dr. Allan in the past nine months.

"Well, no?—"

"Is the child affected by fetal macrosomia?" I insist, blinking two big doe eyes at Ratched and wishing they could shoot lasers.

"… No," Dr. Assface admits quietly.

"Then I don't see the reason," I conclude with my biggest smile. "With my family history, it's all perfectly normal."

"Your family history?"

"Yes," I say with the fakest surprise I can muster. "Surely you've read my file before coming here, Doctor. Haven't you?"

I hear a snort from beyond the privacy screen, quickly covered up by a cough.

I hop down the examination table and put myself back together without waiting for a dismissal. In fact, I dismiss them. "Well then!"

My cheerful demeanor leaves no room for argument. Stunned into silence, the team begins to pack up. Dr. Assface hands Matvey a quickly put-together folder.

Matvey inclines his head. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll be in touch."

That's another clear dismissal. The three leave without a word.

When I see Matvey heading for the door as well, I call, "Wait."

Matvey turns. He's clearly got somewhere to be, tapping his fingers against each other like he's losing a million dollars for every second wasted with me.

I don't care if it's a goddamn billion. He can wait and he can fucking listen.

Once the doctors' steps have faded, I finally speak my mind. "What the hell, Matvey?"

Evidently, Matvey wasn't expecting that. "Come again?"

"Sure," I answer, unfazed. "I said, What the hell ?"

Matvey's eyebrow shoots up. Like, way up. "I'm not sure I appreciate your tone, April."

"Oh, you're not ‘sure' if you ‘appreciate' my ‘tone'?" I take an aggressive step forward. I'm all up in his face right now, but I don't care. I'm fuming. "Well, let me tell you what I don't appreciate: being woken up at the ass crack of dawn, being forced to strip in front of strangers, being groped everywhere by said strangers?—"

"They're doctors, April," Matvey growls back, a familiar vein pulsing at his temple. "That's their job."

"I have a doctor!" I yell, too far gone for politeness. I used up all my reserve to keep my fists to myself earlier; I don't have any to spare. "A perfectly good doctor whom I trust, who's already scheduled our appointments for the month with my consent . A foreign concept to you, I'm sure."

His face goes dark. "I don't remember ever having to force you, Ms. Flowers."

Now, I've done it. He only calls me Ms. Flowers when he's mad or teasing. And right now, I think it's safe to guess which one it is.

But again: don't care.

He takes a step towards me, too. Like this, we're close enough to touch. His comment makes the memories spark in my mind: the changing room, the tie.

Everything.

All the sins that brought us here.

I shake it off. This isn't the time to be daydreaming. Not even with his solid body an inch away from mine, warming me by proximity alone. "What do you call this, then?"

"Taking care of our child," he snarls. All his patience is gone.

That's okay, though. Because, newsflash: so is fucking mine.

" Our child," I reply painstakingly slowly, jabbing a finger in Matvey's ridiculously broad chest with each syllable, "is still in my body, in case you forgot. And as long as that's true, I'll pick my doctor; I'll make my appointments; and I'll decide who gets to touch my body. I don't care if you're a Bratva Pacman?—"

" Pakhan ," he corrects distractedly.

"—or the second coming of Jesus himself," I finish. "My body, my rules. Have I made myself clear?"

Matvey's face shuts off. For a long moment, I can't get a read on him at all: is he mad? Is he furious? Is he gonna start yelling, too?

But then, surprisingly, there's a twitch. Just one, right at the corner of his lips.

And then he picks up my hand.

He unfurls my fingers one by one, watching me intently. He holds it like in the evenings, like the moment before he leans down to kiss it.

But this time, he doesn't.

"Crystal," he says, tone strangely neutral.

Then he walks out the door.

I'm left standing in the middle of the room, staring at the empty space he left behind. My cheeks are flushed crimson; I can feel it by the heat.

In my confusion, only one thought makes its way to the surface.

Was he… laughing?