Page 193 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
I close the cabinet and stand there, breathing hard.
I need to tell him. Of course I need to tell him.
He’s my husband.
The father.
The man who will burn down half the city if he thinks something threatens what belongs to him. And now, inside me, there is something that belongs to him in a way I’m not ready to understand.
My stomach twists.
I leave the bathroom and start pacing the bedroom. From the window to the bed. From the bed to the wardrobe. From the wardrobe back to the window.
The room looks exactly the same as it did an hour ago. Dark wood. Heavy curtains. His watch on the dresser. My brush on the vanity. His cuff links beside my hairpins, as if our lives have started mixing together without asking permission.
I press both hands to my face.
How do I tell him? Do I wait until he comes home and simply say it?
Yaromir, I’m pregnant.
No. Too abrupt.
I have something to tell you.
Worse. He will immediately think someone is dead.
I sit on the edge of the bed, then stand again. Maybe I should confirm with a doctor first. Tests can be wrong. Stress can make bodies strange. I’ve been through enough stress to ruin three women’s cycles.
But two lines are still two lines.
My phone buzzes on the vanity, and I freeze. For one terrible second, I think it’s Yaromir.
It’s not.
My father. Again.
I don’t open the message.
The anger comes as a relief, because it’s easier than fear. I grab the phone and flip it face down. “Not now,” I say to the empty room.
The phone buzzes again. Then again.
I stare at it.
He has sent me four messages today. Maybe five. I’ve lost count. Every one of them sits unopened, demanding something from me even in silence.
My father always did know how to make need feel like a command.
Then the phone starts ringing. The sound slices through the room.
I stare at his name on the screen.
Sergei Sokolov.
For a moment, I consider throwing the phone across the room. Then I remember I’m pregnant, trapped in a guarded estate, married to a man who is currently somewhere dangerous, and my father has apparently decided this is the perfect day to become unbearable.
I snatch the phone up and answer. “What?” I snap.
