9. Natalya

Chapter 9

Natalya

D espite not really wanting to see my old crew anymore, I figured going wedding dress shopping alone would be way too depressing.

Turns out, I was wrong.

Going with a group of girls I’m not close with anymore is infinitely worse.

I shove myself into another dress that doesn’t really fit right in the changing room of a boutique wedding shop while cloying music plays in the main sitting room. I hear Irina laugh loudly, which is a surprise since she’s barely looked up from her phone this whole time. Maria’s out there too, along with Adriano’s sister Bianca, who actually isn’t all that bad.

But seeing Maria and Irina again was excruciating, mostly because they acted like no time has passed and nothing had happened. They squealed over my engagement ring, peppered me with questions about my fiancé (none of which I could answer for obvious reasons), and chattered on about their lives as if I hadn’t been gone for a whole year.

At least they’re catching me up on Bratva gossip, which is considerable, and mostly about Valentino and his new wife.

I step out from the dressing room, tugging at a strap and trying to get the bust to sit right. I feel like a mannequin in a big box store: dirty, tired, and way too used up, and for a few awkward seconds I stand on the little stage while Irina and Maria drink champagne and show each other TikToks on their phones.

At least Bianca’s paying attention. She’s around our age with sleek dark hair, round cheeks, and a bright smile. I knew I’d like her the second she took my arm, dragged me in this place, and promised it would be mostly painless.

She was wrong, but at least she tried.

“You look amazing,” she says and swats a hand at Irina to get her attention.

My former friend looks up and manages to lower her phone. “Oh, wow, girl, amazing .”

Which is exactly what she said about the five other dresses I tried on.

The attendant fusses over me. She’s a woman in her fifties with sleek dark hair and a chic black pant suit. Her heels black on the stage as she takes measurements, tucks in stray fabric, and mutters to herself about which parts need to be altered.

Honestly, the dress is fine. I look fine in it, just like I looked fine in all the others. Nothing’s grabbing my attention, and I’m not sure that’s going to change even if I manage to find the perfect dress that makes me look like a princess.

Clothes won’t change my situation, no matter how pretty.

“What do you think?” Bianca asks me once the attendant leaves the room to gather a few more options.

I shrug at my reflection. “I don’t hate it.”

“That’s what you said about all the others.”

“It’s true.” I take a deep breath, puff out my chest, then blow it out. “I look good enough.”

“You look beautiful,” she says, genuinely smiling as she gently pulls back my hair. It’s an overly familiar gesture but feels natural coming from her for some reason. “But I get it. You’re probably not looking forward to marrying my brother.”

My eyes widen and I glance over at where Irina and Maria are back to staring at their phones. “No, I wouldn’t say that,” I say quickly.

But Bianca just gives me a look. “Come on, be honest. You think I don’t have some idea about how you’re feeling right now? I’m basically waiting to get married off any day now and it sucks.”

“Your family’s going to arrange your husband too?”

“Sooner or later. I’ve been putting them off, but I don’t think I have much time left.” She gestures as if it’s no big deal, and I have to admit I’m really impressed by how she’s handling it. I’ve basically been one big pathetic mess worrying about this for a while now, and I even ran away to Paris to avoid my first arrangement. Not the best look, really.

“It’s not that I don’t like your brother,” I say quietly, because it’s true. “I just don’t really know him, so it’s hard to get excited for the wedding.”

“I completely hear you.” She squeezes my arm. “Tell you what. How about you try on one more dress? If you like it as much as the others, that’s the one you’ll get. If you hate it, you’ll get this one. How’s that sound?”

I tilt my head and look at myself in the mirror. When I was little I pictured coming to a store like this surrounded by all my closest friends and having a good time. Instead, my closest friends are both ignoring me, and the only girl being kind right now is a total stranger.

“That works for me,” I say, lifting my chin.

Bianca gives me a sly smile and leans in closer. “Perfect, and once we’re done here, let’s ditch those two idiots and go for lunch. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds amazing.”

I head into the back, feeling only slightly better. But those good feelings quickly fade away as I strip down into my underwear and stare at the next outfit the attendant left out.

A sudden wave of nausea washes over me.

It comes out of nowhere. One second, I’m totally fine if emotionally vulnerable and mentally bruised, and the next I think I’m about to vomit. I shove myself into the dress, mostly because it’ll be faster to put that on than to wriggle into my clothes, and rush down the short hall to the bathroom. I slam the door behind me, lock it, and puke like I’ve been out drinking too long.

“What the hell?” I whisper as the nausea passes as quickly as it arrived. I flush and clean myself up before staring in the mirror. My skin’s pale and clammy, and there’s a sheen of sweat on my forehead.

I’m worried I’m getting sick—right up until I notice the stain on the white dress.

And I groan.

I try the rub it out, but that doesn’t help at all.

Shame washes over me as I step out of the bathroom, only to find the attendant already waiting. She gives me one look, glances at the stain, and her lips press together in a strained smile. “I suppose we’ll be taking this one,” she says primly. “Shall I take measurements and ensure it gets laundered?”

“Yes, please,” I say, feeling absolutely mortified.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bianca asks as our driver drops me off out front of my father’s place.

“I’m totally fine. I just must’ve eaten something off, that’s all. Probably the shrimp at that dress shop.”

“Irina housed that stuff and she didn’t get sick.” Bianca frowns at me and looks like she wants to say something, but only gives me a tight hug instead. “You’re going to be okay. I’ll be at the wedding, right? We’ll get through it.”

“Thanks for being nice to me,” I blurt out as I fight tears.

She grins, hugs me one more time, and gets back in the car.

All things considered, that outing wasn’t such a disaster. At least I faced my fears, saw my old friends again, and got a dress. Even if it’s my least favorite and has a puke stain.

I lied to Bianca though. I didn’t eat any of that shrimp, or anything that might’ve made me sick. My head’s spinning as I try to come up with some rational explanation, and only one possibility keeps coming to mind.

But I refuse to take that option seriously. At least until that evening when the nausea hits me again and I find myself sitting on the floor of my bathroom with my back to the wall staring at the ceiling and trying to remember when my last period was.

Because I’m late.

And not just a little late: I’m three weeks late.

Ever since I went to Paris, my cycle’s been a little off. I think the travel time plus the emotional stress really messed with my body, and I’ve just been totally irregular ever since.

So when I flew back home and my emotions remained a total wreck, it didn’t really surprise me that my period was off too. I figured it’d show up sooner or later. It happens sometimes. It’s not good—but it happens.

For obvious reasons, I’ve had other things on my mind, which made it easier to accept all those really dumb rationalizations.

But now I feel like a moron for not taking this seriously sooner.

I go into full-on panic mode. I Google like an absolute maniac, which doesn’t help and makes me just think I have super pregnancy cancer or something, and I get desperate enough that I consider calling Maria or Irina for help.

Except the moment I call them is the moment the entire Bratva hears about my little predicament.

Lev can’t help—he’d kill me if he knew—and Bianca’s a total stranger and I’m marrying her brother in a few days, so that’s right out.

I’m so messed up that I nearly call Alex. I hold my phone and stare at his name on my screen, and I think about what he might say.

Then I throw it across the room, because screw that.

In the end, I find a nearby 24-hour grocery store, and sneak out of the house. That’s not easy—the place is normally guarded by a few of my father’s men—but they get a little lazy around midnight. I wait until I hear the snoring, then I slip out the back door, hop the wall, and slip down the alleyway.

My heart’s racing on the walk. My hands shake, and sweat pours down my spine. I keep thinking about Paris—about Alex touching me, about Alex kissing me?—

About Alex finishing between my legs.

More than once.

I loved it at the time. I’m not going to pretend like protection even occurred to me in the moment. But now I’m like, what the hell were we thinking? How did either of us think that was a good idea?

He knew I was going to get married when we came back home. He knew and he still fucked me without a condom. He knew , and he still took the risk.

Now I’m left dealing with the fallout.

I’m left marking my ass alone to a grocery store at midnight to take a pregnancy test.

I’m the one that has to fix this nightmare, while he gets to keep on living his life as if nothing changed.

Rage builds me in as I find my way to the pharmacy section. I grab a little purple box of tests, pay for them at self-checkout, then hurry back into the public bathroom. I’m so mad I could scream as I lock myself in a stall and pray nobody comes to check on me as I rip open the box, take out a white stick, and get busy.

My heart’s hammering madly in my ears while I wait for the lines to change.

Someone should be here with me. I shouldn’t have to do this in some random public restroom in the middle of the night. Alex should at least know this is happening so he can help shoulder some of the stress.

Instead, it’s all on me.

That’s just my shit luck.

I’d pace, but there’s no room. Nobody bothers me, which is a minor miracle. I check my phone, hands shaking, feeling sick to my stomach with nerves and worry.

Alex should be here. Someone should be here.

Except I’m all alone, like always.

Finally, my alarm chirps. I yelp and force myself to turn around and to look at the test perched on top of the toilet paper dispenser.

It’s positive.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think. I can’t move, can’t breathe. I force myself to take the second test, but it says the exact same thing.

Positive.

Pregnant.

I’m pregnant with Alex’s baby.

I’m pregnant with the perfect Bratva soldier’s baby, with my older brother’s best friend’s baby, with the guy I’ve always equally hated and crushed on’s baby .

And I’m getting married to another man in only a few short days.

Another wave of nausea hits me and I puke my guts up.