Chapter 40

Laura

VICTOR’S STARING at me, his face a mask of shock and disbelief. I can almost see his brain going into overdrive, trying to process what Eli just blurted out.

I shift in my seat, my palms sweating. The fancy place settings and crisp white tablecloth suddenly feel like a cruel joke, a mockery of the bomb that just dropped.

“Start talking. Now.” Victor’s voice is low, dangerous. His eyes lock with mine, demanding answers I’m not sure I have.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry. “I… I was going to tell you. I just found out myself, and I didn’t know how…”

He leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “How long?”

I blink, taken aback. “What?”

“How long have you known?” he grits out, his jaw clenched.

I flinch at his tone, my stomach twisting. “Yesterday. I took a test… well, three tests, actually. Just to be sure.”

Victor sinks into a chair, running a hand over his face. He looks like he’s aged ten years in the span of a minute.

“Fuck, Laura. This… this complicates things.”

I can’t help it. A harsh laugh escapes my lips, edged with hysteria. “Complicates things? Yeah, you could say that.”

He shoots me a look, his eyes narrowing. “This isn’t funny.”

“No, it’s fucking hilarious,” I snap, my temper flaring. “I mean, this wasn’t the lunch surprise you were expecting, was it? ‘Surprise, honey, I’m knocked up with your baby! Pass the caviar, would you?’”

Victor’s nostrils flare, his fist clenching on the table. For a second, I think he might actually flip it.

He stares at me for a moment. “Is it mine?”

What the fuck…?

The question hits me like a slap in the face. I feel my cheeks flush with anger, my hands curling into fists.

“Excuse me?” I hiss, my voice low and trembling. “What the fuck kind of question is that?”

Victor’s jaw clenches, his eyes hard. “A valid one. We’ve only been married for a short time, Laura. And it’s not like this was a traditional arrangement.”

I see red. Before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet, my chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“How dare you,” I spit, my whole body shaking. “How fucking dare you imply that I would… that I could…”

I can’t even finish the sentence. The thought is too vile, too hurtful.

Victor stands, too, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Laura, I didn’t mean…”

“Yes, you did,” I snap, cutting him off. “You meant exactly what you said. You think I’m, what? Sleeping around? Trying to trap you with a baby that might not even be yours?”

Victor looks at me, but there’s no remorse in his eyes, no attempt to soften the blow. “Can you blame me for asking?”

Bastard.

I’m shaking now, tears burning in my eyes. “You bastard,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “You fucking bastard.”

Victor just stares at me, his face carved from stone. “Better a bastard than a fool, Laura. I won’t be played. Not by you, not by anyone.” His face momentarily softens after his words land, and he takes a sharp breath, pausing as if he wishes he could rewind the moment.

But it’s too fucking late; something inside me snaps, the last fragile thread of my composure.

He has the decency to look ashamed, but it’s too little, too late. The damage is done.

“Fuck you, Victor,” I whisper, my voice broken and raw. “Fuck you for even thinking that of me.”

I grab my purse, my vision blurred with tears. I need to get out of here, need to be anywhere but in this room with him.

“Kiska, wait,” Victor tries, but I’m already pushing past him, blindly heading for the door.

I yank it open, nearly colliding with Rob, who’s standing there with a tray of appetizers. He looks startled, his eyes darting between me and Victor.

“Mrs. Morozov, are you…?”

“I’m fine,” I choke out, brushing past him. “I just… I need some air.”

I don’t look back. I can’t. If I do, I might just break down completely.

I hurry through the restaurant, ignoring the curious stares and whispers. All I can think about is getting away, putting as much distance as possible between me and the man who just shattered my heart.

The man who’s supposed to be my husband. The father of my child.

But as I burst out into the chilly afternoon air, gulping in desperate breaths, I realize the painful truth.

I don’t know Victor at all. And maybe I never did.

The thought makes me want to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all. But all I can do is wrap my arms around myself, hugging my middle where our baby grows.

A baby he doesn’t even believe is his.

The tears come then, hot and fast and unstoppable. I let them fall, let them burn trails down my cheeks.

Because right now, in this moment, it’s all I have left.

The crisp winter air hits me like a slap as I stumble out of the restaurant, my thin cardigan doing little to ward off the chill. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold in the sobs that threaten to tear me apart.

My heels tap against the sidewalk, a sharp, staccato beat that echoes the pounding of my heart. I feel like a fraud, a pretender in designer clothes and expensive shoes. They’re not me, not really. Just part of the act I’ve been playing.

But the act is over now. The curtain has fallen, and all that’s left is the ugly truth.

I’m pregnant. And the father of my child, the man I’m supposed to be married to, thinks I’m nothing more than a gold-digging whore.

A laugh bubbles up in my throat, harsh and bitter. It’s funny, in a twisted sort of way. I’ve spent so long trying to escape my past, to build a better life for myself. And now, here I am, right back where I started.

Alone. Ashamed. And so, so angry.

The tears are flowing. I let them fall, let them mingle with the mascara streaming down my cheeks. I must look like a fucking mess, but I can’t bring myself to care.

I just keep walking, my feet carrying me down the street, past the posh storefronts and the well-dressed people with their designer dogs. They all seem so perfect, so put together. Like they have their lives all figured out.

Not like me. Not like the knocked-up fool in the too-tight jeans and the killer heels.

Speaking of which, my feet are screaming in protest. I stumble to a nearby bench, collapsing onto the hard metal with a graceless thud.

And then, as if to add insult to injury, my stomach lets out a loud, embarrassing gurgle.

“Great,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my belly. “Just what I need. A surprise baby, a broken heart, and a stomach that’s trying to eat itself.”

As if in response, my tummy growls louder.

“I know, kid,” I whisper, my voice choked with tears. “I’m hungry too. But Mommy’s a little busy having a breakdown right now, so you’re just going to have to wait.”

My phone starts ringing then, a tinny, insistent sound that grates on my last nerve. I fish it out of my purse, glancing at the screen.

It’s Victor. Of course it fucking is.

For a moment, I’m tempted to answer. To scream and rage and let him have it, to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he’s caused me.

But I can’t. I’m too raw, too broken. If I hear his voice now, I might just shatter completely.

So I let it ring. And ring. And ring.

Until finally, blessedly, it stops.

I let out a shaky breath, leaning my head back against the bench. The metal is cold against my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of my anger, my humiliation.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the world.

The scent of hot dogs wafts through the air, making my stomach grumble even louder.

“Oh, come on,” I groan, looking around for the source of the tantalizing aroma.

And there they are, a picture-perfect couple, all smiles and loving embraces as they share a hot dog.

“Well, isn’t that just fucking adorable,” I mutter bitterly.“Happiness, love, and processed meat. The holy trinity of everything I don’t have.”

Tears stream down my face as I wallow in self-pity.

What’s with all these emotions? Ah, must be those infamous pregnancy hormones kicking in.

Trying to hide my tears, I stare at the ground when a pair of expensive-looking shoes enters my line of vision. A crisp, white handkerchief dangles in front of my face.

Victor? My heart skips a beat.

Has he come to his senses, ready to beg for forgiveness and promise me the world?

But as I look up, I realize it’s not Victor at all.

I find myself gazing into the eyes of a devastatingly handsome stranger. But he’s just not on Victor’s level of hot, dangerous, or sexy—doesn’t even come close. His suit practically screams money, and his cologne is an intoxicating blend of wealth and confidence. A charming smile plays on his lips as he looks down at me.

“Excuse me, miss,” he says, his voice smooth as silk. “I couldn’t help but notice you from across the park. A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be crying on a bench alone.”

I snort, wiping my tears with the back of my hand. “I… thank you,” I say, looking at the handkerchief he’s holding out to me. I press my lips together, contemplating whether to accept his kindness. “But I’m okay.”

He smiles warmly. “Well, you don’t look okay to me. In fact, you look like you could use a friend right now.” Without invitation, he sits down next to me, a little too close for comfort. “You’re shivering. How about we go grab a hot coffee somewhere and warm you up?”

I instinctively shift further away from him, creating some much-needed distance. “No, no, but thank you,” I reply, trying to be polite despite my unease.

He leans in closer, his hand brushing against my knee. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me take care of you. A pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be out here all alone.”

His touch makes my skin crawl, and I’m about to tell him off when suddenly, a familiar coat drapes over my shoulders. The scent of Victor’s cologne envelops me, and I feel a wave of relief wash over me.

“Hands off my wife,” Victor growls, his voice low and menacing. He steps in front of me protectively, shielding me from the stranger’s unwanted advances. “I suggest you disappear. Now.”

Victor’s voice rumbles like a thunderstorm as he snarls. He towers over the stranger. His hands, balled into fists, tremble with restrained rage as he stares down the intruder like he’s going to kill him.

“You lay one finger on my wife,” he growls, “and I’ll break every single bone in your hand.”