The doctor lets me listen a moment more, then pauses when the sound shifts. It’s as if the baby’s heart has an echo. Her brow wrinkles, and she cocks her head, listening hard. She stares at the screen in front of her, which is still turned away from me.
I almost ask her if everything is okay, or if the sound means bad news. But I’m too afraid to ask, too afraid to know.
“Well, that’s interesting.” The OB/GYN shifts the screen so I can finally see it.
“What’s interesting?” I gulp.
“It looks like you’re having twins. See?” She points to the screen.
At the wordtwins, my brain stops.
“Do twins run in your family? Or your partner’s family?” the doctor asks, calm as ever, as if she announces multiple babies to expectant mothers all the time.
“No,” I manage faintly, my brain still stuck. “Not on my side, anyway. I’m not sure about the father’s side.”
A prickle hits the backs of my eyes without warning, swelling into a thickness in my throat and a burn in my nose before I’m gulping back tears. I can’t force them away fast enough, and they slip down my cheeks, turning into a torrent and leaving me a sobbing mess.
What do I really know about Evgeny? How will he react to the news? Does he want children? Will he turn me out, leaving me toraise two children on my own? Will he take them from me and raise them to become Bratva leaders like he is?
The doctor hands me a tissue without a word, and I only cry harder.
My panic spirals wide to include the disastrous morning. With Evgeny out of town for some kind of Bratva business back East, I’ve finally taken myself to the doctor. Alone. But not before going to my family home to fight it out with Jordan.
The kid is a mess. I told him I was tired of saving his ass, that it was time to pull himself out of it. Jordan got defensive and mean, and I told him I was done. He couldn’t keep doing this to our family, to me. I’d tried everything, but I couldn’t do it anymore.
It was the wrong thing to say, coming from a place of anger and frustration and pregnancy hormones. Jordan had cursed me out and stormed from the house.
To make things worse, I’d gone downstairs to leave for my appointment only to be confronted yet again by my father, telling me to break it off with Evgeny.
He said maybe I, growing up safe in L.A., didn’t understand what Evgeny is. But he’d been in Russia and knew what the Bratva are about. He promised me that Evgeny would never change. Whatever I thought was going on, whatever feelings I thought he had for me, I was wrong about him. Evgeny only cares for the power and the vows of brotherhood he took, including forsaking family.
It’s been one hell of a day, and it’s barely noon.
“Twins aren’t all that rough,” the doctor soothes as she hands me another tissue, assuming that’s what I’m crying about. “You’ll figure it out. All moms do.”
I nod, scrubbing my face with the wadded-up ball of tissues crushed in my hand. Then I listen as the doctor gives me instructions, explains warning signs of trouble that make my anxiety skyrocket, writes a prescription for prenatals, and orders the blood tests.
When she’s done, I run as fast and as far as possible from that office, wanting to put distance between all the truths and questions that had flooded me throughout the half-hour appointment.
Only a half hour, and my life will never, ever be the same.
There’s one more life-changing event I have to get through today. I know it’s time to tell Evgeny, whatever the consequences. I walk through the door, hoping he’s already home, since his plane had landed and was waiting for a taxi the last time we spoke.
When I get back to the estate, there are multiple missed calls and a message from Jordan on my phone. It’s been hours since he called. I’d been too caught up in my problems to check, and fear grips me as I listen to the message.
“Eva? Eva, I did something bad. Really bad. I told a secret I shouldn’t have to a guy I’m in debt to. I think he’s going to kill me. Please help me. Come get me. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll go straight. Just please come help me.”
I can hear the tears in my little brother’s voice even through the recording, the panic, the fear.
“Please, Eva. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please come?—”
The message cuts off, and I can’t call him back fast enough, my heart pounding and hands shaking. The first call rings until it goes to voicemail. So do the second and the third, until I feel sick.
“Come on, Jordan. Answer the damn phone!”
My fourth call goes to voicemail, too, my plea unanswered.
“Eva?”
