43. Viviana

I only have time to read half of the chart on gynecological disorders before the doctor comes in.

She's wearing burgundy-colored scrubs and has an alarmingly large travel mug of coffee in one hand. "The test was positive," she says as soon as she's in the room. She doesn't even look at me. She has all the inflection of someone reading out their WiFi password. It's the way a robot would deliver news, no emotion whatsoever.

Surely if she was delivering good news, she"d say it with a little more gusto.

I frown. "Positive for what?"

Finally, she looks up at me. "You came here for a pregnancy test, correct?"

"I peed in a cup. I guess I'm not sure who did which test, but I left my sample in the bathroom next to?—"

"You're pregnant," she interrupts. "The strip turned pink."

My stomach churns and I'm not sure if it's nausea or anxiety. I check to make sure there is a trash can within arm's reach just in case. "Are the tests in your office more accurate than the ones I can buy at the drugstore?"

"Nope. They're the exact same thing, just without the pretty plastic wrapping."

Okay, now, I'm sure: it's anxiety.

"Then what's the point of coming here to confirm it?"

"You need a positive test on record to be referred to an obstetrician as a patient." She tucks her clipboard under her arm and shrugs. "It's bureaucratic."

"Is there anything more… conclusive? I took a pregnancy test a few months ago that said it was positive, but it turned out to be a false positive."

"False positives are very rare," she says flatly. "Only one percent of positive results are false."

"Then I guess I'm one in a hundred."

The joke falls flat. Probably because the doctor lacks the human capacity for humor. She also lacks anything even resembling bedside manner.

"So?" I press when she says nothing. "Is there a test that's more conclusive?"

She sighs like I'm the worst part of her day. "Stop in at the lab on your way out. I'll order a blood test."

"When will I have the results from that?"

"It depends on how busy the lab is. Could be this afternoon, could be four days. I'm not sure."

I'm not sureis some half-assed code for I don't care.

"Thanks for narrowing it down for me," I mumble.

Finally, she chuckles, but I'm not laughing.

Anatoly shifts the car into park. "I think you should tell him."

I fake a gasp. "You do? I can't believe that. You definitely haven't been saying that every thirty seconds since we left the clinic."

To be clear: he has in fact been saying it every thirty seconds since we left the clinic. From the moment I told Anatoly the test came back positive, it's all he's been able to say.

"Sorry." He shrugs. "I just think you should tell him."

I reach over the console and punch his shoulder. "I know! Stop saying it."

"I'll stop saying it when you tell my brother you're having his baby."

I level a glare at him. "Are you going to be able to keep it together when we see him? Given what you do for a living, I would've guessed you'd have a better poker face."

"What is it you think I do for a living?"

"Whatever Mikhail tells you to," I guess.

"Exactly," he snaps. "I am man enough to admit that when my brother tells me to jump, I don't even ask, ‘How high?' I just start jumping. So, no, keeping secrets from him isn't one of my many, many skills."

I spit the ginger lozenge I stole from the clinic's lobby into a napkin and wedge it in the pocket of the passenger door. "Then you have an elevator ride's amount of time to practice. Because I'm not telling him today. I'm not telling until I get the results back from the blood test."

If the doctor was right and false positives are rare, then I'm probably pregnant. That doesn't mean I'm ready to start shouting the news from the rooftops. Especially because, as much as I wanted this, the news still makes me feel like I'm going to hurl. Or maybe that's the morning sickness.

All I know is, the next time I tell Mikhail I'm pregnant, it's going to be for real.

We can't afford any doubts.

The old Cerberus Industries was located on the third floor of a crumbling building downtown. There had been some surface-level updates here and there over the years, but the building was dark brown brick and the terrazzo tile floors were yellowed and chipping.

The new Cerberus Industries belongs in a sci-fi movie. It's all sleek, chrome lines and wall-to-wall glass. There's almost zero chance that a bathroom on the fourth floor could leak through the ceiling unchecked for years and make a conference room on the floor below into an unusable sewer. So, a definite upgrade.

"This place almost makes me want a desk job," Anatoly sighs, adjusting the lapels of his well-worn leather jacket and cracking his tattooed knuckles.

"Oh, yeah," I muse. "You'd fit right in."

As soon as the doors open, a petite woman with tortoise shell glasses and a crisp pantsuit grins at us. "Welcome to Cerberus Industries. How can I—" Her mouth snaps shut at the sight of Anatoly walking out of the elevator. It takes her a couple seconds to regain her composure. "How can I h-help you?"

Anatoly grins and tosses her a wink. "Thanks, but I know my way around."

He moves to walk past her, and I'm positive she's going to let him. Anatoly has a way of getting exactly what he wants from women. But just as he's edging past her desk, she darts out and plants every bit of her five-foot-nothing frame in front of him. "I'm sorry, but I need to know who you're here to see. It's protocol."

His smile sharpens. "I'm here to see Mikhail Novikov."

"Mr. Novikov is busy. If you leave your name, I can give him a message."

"I'm not leaving my name with his—" He eyes her up and down. "Are you his new assistant?"

She straightens her jacket. "I am. And Mr. Novikov told me to let no one in to see him except for his wife."

I step forward and raise my hand in a friendly wave. "That's me. I'm his wife." The words still feel bizarre coming out of my mouth. "I'm Viviana and this is Anatoly, Mikhail's brother."

"Oh, God." The woman's cheeks turn a deep shade of pink. "I'm so sorry. I should have guessed. I'm Adriana."

"Security is usually my job, but that's okay. You can make it up to me next time," Anatoly tells her as he tries, once again, to waltz past her down the hall.

Once again, Adriana stops him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Novikov, but Mr.—er, the other Mr. Novikov only gave clearance for his wife to come to his office."

"Of course he did." Anatoly's shoulders droop. "And where am I supposed to go?"

Adriana bites the corner of her mouth, clearly holding back a smile. "He told me to tell you to find yourself some lunch and come back in an hour."

Anatoly narrows his eyes. He may jump whenever Mikhail tells him to, but he doesn't take orders from anyone else. I can sense an argument brewing, so I dart around them before I'm stuck in the middle of it.

I can hear Adriana and Anatoly talking behind me, but I hurry down the hall. I'd rather do this without Anatoly, anyway. I don't trust him not to crumble and tell Mikhail about the pregnancy the moment we're through the door.

I'm halfway down the hall before I realize I have no idea where Mikhail's office is. It's a maze of solid wood doors with empty name plates screwed into the walls. Everyone is still getting settled. I'm contemplating turning around and asking for Adriana's help.

Then, a deep voice beckons me from the door to my right.

"Come in, Viviana."

There is a tall, thin window set into the wall next to his door, but the blinds are drawn. I have no idea how Mikhail knows it's me outside the door, but I'm also not surprised.

I push the door open. "Could you be any more obvious about the fact that this is a booty call?"

The words are still hanging in the air when I look around his office and realize, yes, he could be a lot more obvious.

And that's exactly what he's being.

"Mikhail!" I hiss his name and slam his office door shut. I flick the lock closed, but the metal bolt doesn't seem sturdy enough. I want bars and chains. I want a moat dug into the floor outside of his office to make sure no one comes in here.

Not until the projector is turned off. And burned. And the ashes have been scattered to the winds.

"Do you like it?" Mikhail kicks his feet up on his desk and gestures to the wall, where a slideshow of the naked photos I sent him the other day are on a nonstop carousel. Around and around and around I go, wearing less and less clothing until the pictures start all over again.

"What if I was someone else? What if you called the wrong person in here and they saw this?"

"Then I would have told them to leave." He dips his chin, smirking up at me. "Because I'm waiting for my wife."