68. Matvey

68

MATVEY

April's giving birth.

That's the first text I see when I turn my phone back on. Along with a sea of missed calls.

Suddenly, it's like the world is spinning. Giving birth? No, that can't be—she was supposed to be induced. She was supposed to…

Idiot , I kick myself. Did you really think it would be that simple? That having a child would be so neat and easy?

I'm the biggest fucking moron to ever walk the earth. Of course things wouldn't be that simple; of course they wouldn't follow a goddamn script, especially with a child in the mix.

Some father I'm shaping up to be.

The rest of the texts are more of the same.

Her water broke. She's being rushed to the hospital.

She insisted on a cab. I wasn't sure you'd approve, but then again, you did take all the cars.

Matvey, pick up. She's in labor right now.

Pick up, goddammit.

And then, the last text:

I'm coming there.

"I see your phone isn't broken after all," Grisha quips, appearing at my side with uncanny timing.

I'm flooded with shame—with rage. At the world, but more specifically at the man in front of me. Why didn't he come sooner? Why didn't he send for me? Why didn't he call Yuri if it was so fucking important?!

But I know I'm just making excuses.

Because, most of all, I'm angry at myself.

Once again, I didn't answer. April needed me— and I didn't fucking answer .

"Take me to her," I bark. "Now."

As we move towards the parking lot, someone yanks me by the arm. "Where ya going, son?"

"Let go, Vlad."

"Nonsense," my shitfaced father-in-law spits. His breath smells like something crawled into his mouth and died horribly. It takes all my willpower not to vomit. "It's yer wedding, son."

"I'm wed. Wedding's over."

"The guests are going to talk."

"Then let them."

"Son—"

"Call me ‘son' one more time," I snarl in his face. "See what fucking happens."

Hands up in defeat, Vlad lets go of me.

"That wasn't wise," Grisha comments dryly. "Vlad's a spiteful man. And he's got a long memory."

"Ask me if I give a fuck," I bite out. " Blyat' , where the hell is my brother?"

All the way to the car, I keep trying to call him, but it goes straight to voicemail. Serves you right , the bitter part of me snarks.

"Can we really afford to wait for him?" Grisha frowns.

I don't appreciate how clear he's making his disapproval. Once this thing is over, I'm gonna need to have a long, hard talk with him about insubordination and its consequences.

"No," I say. "Drive."

"Alright."

"Like the fucking wind, Grisha."

"Yes, pakhan. "

All the way there, a single thought keeps me from punching the car door off its hinges: I'm going to meet my child.

When I get to the hospital, I don't stop to look where I'm going. I don't stop as the nurses yell at me, as security tries to stop me from going up to the maternity ward.

I only stop to roar one question.

"Where is April Flowers?!"

Thankfully, Dr. Allan recognizes me. "Nice of you to show up at last, Mr. Groza."

I have no bandwidth for her sarcasm, for the contempt I can so clearly hear in her words. A year ago, I would've made her pay for the insolence.

Now, I only care about one thing.

"Show me where she is."

As we walk towards her room, a thousand things flood my mind. A thousand things I want to say to her.

I'm sorry.

I should've been here.

I don't love Petra. I never have.

I don't want Petra. I never have.

I don't want anyone else—I meant it then, and I mean it now. It's you I want. It's you I ? —

"What…?"

Dr. Allan's voice shakes me out of my head. I look up to the source of her confusion?—

And I see it.

April's bed: empty.

"She signed herself out," Dr. Allan murmurs, staring dumbly at the discharge papers on the bedside table. "Who the hell let my patient sign herself out?!" Residents scatter like flies at the sound of her screech.

But I barely see any of that.

All I can see is the blood on the sheets.

"Where is she?" I mutter. Then, louder: "Where is my child ?!"

But one look at Dr. Allan's face tells me all I need to know.

April's gone—and my child is gone, too.

I rush to the penthouse without a second thought.

Maybe she went home , I tell myself as I mash the elevator buttons into a pulp. Maybe she didn't want to be among strangers. Maybe ? —

When I throw the door open, my heart sinks.

April's stuff is gone. Not everything—but a few changes of clothes, toiletries, the essentials. Our child's belongings.

Everything she'd need to run.

Missing clothes, missing items. A missing partner, a missing child.

It's my worst nightmare and I didn't even know it. And now, I'm living it.

"Fuck," I snarl, clenching my fists until my knuckles are see-through. "Fuck, fuck, fuck !"

Then I see the envelope on the table.

A letter.

A letter from April.

And it's addressed to me.

With shaking hands, I tear the envelope open and start to read.

Dear Matvey,

I've been staring at this page for five minutes, trying to figure out what to write. I figured I owed it to you to at least say goodbye. To explain why I'm saying it.

But in the end, all I can say is: I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I wasn't good enough for you. I'm sorry that what we had wasn't good enough. That it wasn't as strong for you as it was for me.

I'm sorry I couldn't give you what you wanted.

" Blyat' ," I swear out loud.

She couldn't give me what I wanted? Is that what she thinks?

"No," I mutter into the silence. "You didn't give me what I wanted. You gave me more. You gave me?—"

What I needed.

Grinding my teeth into dust, I keep reading.

I hope you'll be happy with Petra. I know you will. I've seen you at your best, Matvey: how kind, warm, and amazing you can be. I've seen her at her best, too. (I think.) I'm still not sure how much of it was an act, but I'm choosing to believe that part was genuine: the best of both of you.

I hope you'll give each other that.

And I hope you'll give it to your child, too.

There is no child , I want to scream. The only child I have is the child I have with you .

But even if I did, April couldn't hear me. I could shout it from the rooftops and still, April wouldn't hear me.

So I curse myself and keep reading.

But you see, I have a child, too. A child who's going to need lots of love to brave this world.

And they'll need to feel accepted.

You have no idea how much this is tearing me apart, Matvey. Even as I write, I keep hoping you'll come in through that door. That you'll see your child and fall in love just like I did.

But you're not coming.

You weren't there for the birth, either. You weren't there when our baby needed you most—when I needed you most. And I'm afraid that, as time passes, you'll barely be there at all.

I don't want my kid to grow up like that, Matvey. I've had enough of it for a lifetime. Being second choice, being second-best… you have no idea how painful it can be. How badly it can scar you.

Our baby deserves better than that. Better than a divided heart.

So now, I'm going to do the hardest thing I've ever done. The hardest thing any mother can do, really.

I'm going to do what's best for my daughter.

I'm going to leave, and I'm not going to come back.

Goodbye,

April

Unblinking, I stare at the letter in my hands. I can't tell for how long—seconds, minutes, hours. It could be days for all I know.

She was wrong about at least one thing, though: My heart isn't "divided."

It's shattered.

"FUCKING HELL!"

I punch the table so hard it breaks.

But the pain isn't enough to ground me. Not the splinters in my hand, not the ache of the scene in front of me: the table where we ate so many family dinners, now lying in pieces at my feet. "I fucked up," I rasp to the only person I haven't alienated yet: myself. "I fucked it all up."

I'm furious. I'm heartbroken. I'm a wounded animal and a raging monster, howling out of grief and anger both.

Because April is gone.

And now, my daughter is gone, too.

TO BE CONTINUED

Matvey and April's story continues in Book 2 of the Groza Bratva Duet, CASHMERE RUIN .