“There,” Dr. Lennox says softly, her voice changing, becoming real. “That’s your baby. And there…”
She turns a dial.
The sound fills the room.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Fast. Impossibly fast. A hummingbird heartbeat, frantic andreal.
Everything stops. My vision narrows to that gray screen, to the flicker, to the sound that is louder than my own screaming thoughts. I feel Mikhail’s fingers dig into my shoulder. He makes a noise—low, ragged, barely human. When I tear my eyes from the monitor to look at him, his face… Eyes damp. Jaw slack. The Bratva boss is undone.
He hears it too.
But for me, it is devastating.
Dr. Lennox prints a photo. Prescribes prenatal vitamins. Schedules us for four weeks from now. She hands me a paper bag with samples and a pamphlet on first-trimester nutrition, her professional smile firmly back in place.
“Congratulations,” she says.
And she means it.
We don't speak on the ride home. Mikhail stares out the tinted window, my hand prisoner in his. I stare at the ultrasound photo, memorizing it. Will this be the last picture I have of my child?
My child…
We go up together, but he has to leave. A crew hit one of his warehouses. Something that requires the Pakhan. He kisses me hard at the door, one hand framing my face, one spread wide over my stomach.
“Rest,” he orders. His eyes search mine. “Are you alright?”
I nod. I don’t speak. I can’t.
If I open my mouth, I’ll saydon’t go.
But I'm not sure who that plea is for…
So I say nothing. When the door closes, I stand in the center of the quiet living room. I swear I still hear it.Thump-thump. Thump-thump.It’s inside me. Not his. Not fully. Mine.
Except it is mine. It's not a blur on a computer screen. My child is already depending on me. Needing me. Relying on me to be there. Everyday. Counting on me to—Not. Walk. Away.
I promised myself I would never do this. I thought I could. Turns out I can't break this promise. I just can't.
I walk to the bedroom on shaky legs. I pull the designer tote from the closet—the one he bought me. I open the bottom drawer where I stashed my old life.
The thrift-store peacoat that smells of bus stations and stale smoke. My black jeans with the frayed hem. The hoodie with a bleach stain on the sleeve.
My hands quake as I change. The coat is tight across my chest now, but not from the baby. From the care he gives me, delicious, full meals, as much food as I could ever want. After a lifetime of hunger, I have a man who demands that I eat, but not that I stay.
It doesn’t matter. I put on my old clothes. I leave the silk robes hanging in the closet. The cashmere sweaters folded in the drawer. My new phone sits on the nightstand with the laptop and credit cards. The life he built around me, but neverforme.
I take only what I came with, along with the prenatal vitamins and the ultrasound photo. The photo is a mistake—but I can't leave it. It’s proof.
The elevator takes forever. Every second, I expect an alarm to sound. Expect Mikhail’s voice to crackle over the intercom, cold and furious and betrayed. But nothing happens. I’m not aprisoner. I was never a prisoner. I was an incubator with an expiration date.
The doormen know me. They smile as I pass through the lobby, one tipping his hat. “Ma’am.”
I smile, though it hurts my face. “Just getting some air.”
Outside, the November air turns my clothes to gauze. I walk fast, head down, toward South Station. I don’t know where I’m going. Just away. North. South. Anywhere the Red Line or a bus or my own two feet will take me before he realizes I’m gone and sends his wolves.
