33. Viviana

I'm doing this because I'm bored.

That's what I tell myself, anyway, as I pull an off-brand pregnancy test out of the box and shred through the plastic wrapping.

This is what days without adult social interaction will do to a person. I'm so starved for entertainment that I'm manufacturing drama in my head. Actually, to be specific, Google manufactured it for me. I dove head-first down one too many internet rabbit holes and things got bleak fast.

As soon as I take this stupid test, I'm going to write a strongly worded email to whichever sadistic algorithm curated my search results. No matter what pregnancy-related topic I searched for, the results pointed me straight to fetal abnormalities or sudden death. And not even sudden death for the baby—for all of us! A couple nights ago, I was seconds away from texting Mikhail that we might all have brain tumors. I talked myself down eventually, but it took a while.

"This is the kind of stuff that happens when you're left alone for too long," I mutter to myself as I sit down on the toilet.

Stuff like talking to yourself.

And taking pregnancy tests even though you're ten weeks pregnant and there isn't a chance in the world the test will be negative.

I mean, sure, I haven't had the most pregnancy symptoms. But every pregnancy is different. I know because that's the cliché line every listicle writer on the internet likes to add after articles like "10 Ways You're Ruining Your Child Before They're Even Born" and "7 Silent Symptoms of Miscarriage."

With Dante, I had nausea morning, noon, and night. There was no relief. I was slung over the toilet constantly. When I couldn't be slung over a toilet, I had an actual barf bucket I stashed under my desk for emergencies.

This pregnancy has been… different.

But that's fine. I'm only peeing on this stick because there's nothing better to do.

Mikhail has been busy since the moment we parked in front of the mansion. Raoul was waiting for him, grim-faced as usual. They walked into Mikhail's office and I'm not completely positive they walked out again.

I think I saw Mikhail slipping into the hallway early this morning, but the sun wasn't up yet and it was still dark, so I can't be sure.

Two nights ago, I might have felt him drop into bed beside me, but I'd been asleep for hours already and was barely conscious. By the time I woke up the next morning, the bed was empty.

He has work to do and I get that. The peaceful bubble we lived inside at the cabin was never going to be forever. It had to burst at some point.

It isn't just Mikhail; Anatoly has been busy, too. I used to be able to count on him to pop in and annoy me at least a few times every day, but lately, he seems to dart out of every room I walk into. I'd accuse him of avoiding me if I could pin him down long enough.

Even Dante has Mrs. Steinman to talk to for a few hours every morning.

I have nothing and no one.

The afternoons stretch on and on. That's the only reason I can't stop stressing about the pregnancy. If I had something else to occupy my mind—human interaction, work, a half-decent TV show to watch—I wouldn't be hunched over my bathroom sink, staring down at a pregnancy test I don't need to take.

I already know what the result is going to be.

When the timer goes off, I flip the test over. There's a smile on my face. I'm actually amused with how ridiculous I'm being.

Then I see the test window and freeze.

Nothing.

The square, plastic window is utterly, incomprehensibly blank.

I snatch the test off the counter and shake it like that might change the answer. I don't have any idea how pregnancy tests work, but some sort of chemical reaction should be happening in there, shouldn't it? Maybe the pee got stuck inside the stick and didn't make it to the test. I angle it one way and the other, but nothing changes.

"I peed on it," I mutter. "Right?"

Maybe I didn't actually pee on it.

It's stupid, but it's the only thing that makes any damn sense.

But of course I peed on it. I remember because it happened less than three minutes ago! Because while I was peeing on it, I thought to myself, You're being ridiculous. Of course you're pregnant. You don't need to be doing this.

My heart is pounding loudly enough that it's all I can hear as I dump the rest of the tests on the counter.

Every pregnancy is different.

I only had morning sickness for a few days this time. That's fine. Normal, even.

Though all of the nausea did happen while I was being held captive. On the sliding scale of normal or not, being kidnapped and chained to a bed is definitely less normal.

The nausea could have been stress or dehydration, I guess… But that still wouldn't explain the positive pregnancy test I got in the motel. The same test I wedged between the mattress and the wall in the cell Trofim had me locked in.

I don't feel quite as ridiculous as I pee on the last two tests and plop them on the counter next to the first.

A lack of symptoms is why I went down the first internet rabbit hole. Can a healthy pregnancy have no symptoms, I typed.

Turns out, for ninety percent of women, the answer is no.

Thirty seconds pass and nothing. I can see the test working, but there's no little pink line.

Why isn't there a little pink line?

I stand at the sink, frozen, for the entire three minutes. As the timer winds down, I cling to the pitiful hope that the last fifteen seconds will change something. That the tests will magically show that I'm pregnant with Mikhail's child and everything is fine and I've been worried for days over nothing.

But deep down, I know the truth.

I think I've known for a while.

That doesn't stop a sob from tearing out of my chest. I shove my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound and slide to the floor.

I stay there for a long time, crying until I'm all emptied out.

No one comes to check on me.

No one's even around to notice I'm gone.

"Where's Daddy?" Dante grumbles, kicking the toe of his shoes into the tile with every step. He's been walking in a circle around the dining room table for twenty minutes.

On lap one, he stepped on only the grout lines. Lap two, he jumped from tile to tile and screamed if he even got close to the grout. Now, he's shuffling his feet, shoulders slumped.

He looks how I feel.

"He's working." I've answered this question a lot this afternoon. He's only asking because I haven't been great company.

"Then can you play with me?"

"I already told you, I can't. I'm busy."

"You're just sitting there," he mumbles. "That's not busy."

If he had any idea how much energy it took to drag myself off the bathroom floor and sit up in this chair, he wouldn't be saying that.

But I never even told Dante I was pregnant. Mikhail brought it up a few times at the cabin, but I didn't want to overwhelm him. I was waiting for the right time to share the good news.

Now, I'm waiting for the right time to tell Mikhail that it was all some cosmic joke.

For the first time in days, I don't care that it's dinnertime and Mikhail isn't home yet. It's easier if he stays away. I'm terrified that the moment he walks through the door and I see his smiling face, I'll fall to pieces.

It shouldn't be this hard.I was barely pregnant. I don't even know if it was a boy or a girl. I technically don't know if it was anything at all.

For all I know, I was never pregnant. The first test could have been a false positive and the few symptoms I did have were all in my head.

I might be heartbroken over something that never existed.

But when I close my eyes, I can still feel Mikhail's warm hand pressed to my stomach underneath the covers. He was excited. He wanted this.

I wanted this, too.

Whether the baby was real or not, the future we were painting was achingly real. And now it's shattered.

"Mama." Dante shakes my arm and I blink. He's standing in front of me and I have no idea how long he's been there.

"Sorry, bud. What?"

"I'm hungry," he repeats. "My stomach keeps growling at me."

Great work, Viviana. Get so lost in your head that you let the child you do have go hungry.

"That's a problem we can solve. Let's go find something to warm up."

Anatoly and Raoul chose a replacement for Pyotr while we were at the cabin, but they haven't hired anyone to replace Stella. I don't think Anatoly is ready for someone else to fill her shoes. I get it; I'm not ready, either.

In the meantime, a chef has been delivering meal-prepped dishes every morning that we can warm up. Tonight's offering is chicken piccata and roasted asparagus.

Dante wrinkles his nose as soon as I peel back the lid. "What are those?" He pokes at a caper and then flicks the sauce off the end of his finger. "It's disgusting."

"It's not disgusting. You like chicken and pasta."

"I want the chicken Daddy made," he says. "At the cabin."

The image of Mikhail standing at the counter, a knife in one hand and a dish towel tossed over his shoulder, flashes through my mind.

I want that, too.

"Daddy is busy. He can't cook tonight. But I can warm this up for you."

Dante crosses his arms. "I want to eat my fish. I never got to eat the fish I catched."

"The fish you—" I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Bud, we left the fish on the lake."

He groans. "You left it? It got wasted?"

"You fell through the ice and we had to make sure you were okay."

He frowns like he has no idea what I'm talking about. "Daddy said I could eat it. He promised."

"That was before he knew you were going to drown, Dante! That was before we had to restart your heart!"

Dante flinches and regret floods me immediately. After days of wishing there were more people around, I suddenly wish I was alone. I'm not in a great place.

I set the dinner dish on the counter and kneel down in front of him. "I know you were excited to eat your fish."

His lower lip pouts out, but he tries to suck it back in. "It was the first fish I ever catched."

"It probably would have been the tastiest fish in the world. But you were our first priority, bud. We had to leave the fish behind to make sure you were safe. I'm sorry."

His eyes are glassy, but he nods. "I'll eat the chicken potato."

I manage a smile. "Chicken potato coming right up."

Ten minutes later, Dante is at the table munching away and I'm heading towards the dining room with my plate when the front door opens.

For a few minutes, I almost forgot. Taking care of Dante distracted me. But as soon as Mikhail appears in the hallway, it all rushes back.

I'm not pregnant.

I have to tell him.

It's the first time I've seen him since we got out of the car three days ago and there's a hollow ache in my stomach. It takes everything I have to keep hold of my plate.

"Hi." I'm not sure how I force the single syllable out of my tight throat, but I do.

Mikhail looks surprised, like he didn't expect anyone to be home. He's half-turned towards the stairs, but he stops and looks back over his shoulder. "Hey."

Don't tell him.

You can't tell him right now.

"Are you hungry?" I hold my plate towards him. "I can heat something else up for myself if you want to?—"

"I'm not hungry." His jaw flexes and somewhere deep in my head, I wonder if somehow he already knows. It's the only reason I can come up with why he's looking through me like I'm not even here.

"You should eat something. You haven't taken anything from the fridge in a few days. Working as much as you have been, you need to refuel and?—"

"I know how to take care of myself," he snaps.

I slam my mouth shut.

His brows pinch together. I think he might feel bad, but before I can get a good read on him, a chair scrapes away from the table and Dante hurls himself down the hall.

"Daddy!"

For the first time since he walked through the door, Mikhail smiles. It's tight and dimmed, but he ruffles Dante's hair. "How's it going, kid?"

"Can you read to me tonight?" Dante asks, ignoring the question. "I want you to put me to bed."

Mikhail glances at his watch. That's all he has to do for me to know he's going right back to work. He didn't plan on us being right here. He was going to slip inside, do what he needed to do, and leave again.

"I'll put you to bed, buddy," I offer, trying to let Mikhail off the hook. "It's my favorite part of the day."

I wink at him, but Dante frowns and tugs on Mikhail's pant leg. "Pleeeease. You let me sleep with four stuffies and Mama only lets me have three."

Mikhail looks at me. The longer he stays, the more likely it is that I blurt out the news. I sigh. "You can have as many as you want tonight, okay? Just let me do it and?—"

"I want Daddy!" he snaps.

Don't we fucking all?!

I take a deep breath, ready to tell Dante that we don't always get what we want. Life is hard. The sooner you learn that, the sooner it can beat you down.

Thankfully, Mikhail interrupts me. "I have time to put you to bed. I'll shower while you eat and we'll meet in your room."

Dante does an actual happy dance back to the table to finish dinner. I can't even blame him; I'd do a happy dance if I could get away from me, too.

By the time I turn back to the stairs, Mikhail is gone.