Page 85 of Cruel Submission

Now I’m lying on Dr. Petrov’s examination table, the paper crinkling beneath me. The gel is cold against my belly, and I hiss through my teeth.

Arkady stands to my left, his hand wrapped around mine. His thumb traces circles on my palm—that same possessive gentleness he’s been showing me for two weeks. But I can feel the tension in him. The tightness in his jaw. The way his shoulders are set like he’s preparing for a fight.

Even here, in a doctor’s office, he’s ready for violence.

That’s who he is. Who he’ll always be.

But right now, that violence is pointed outward. Protecting. Not threatening.

Debra sits in the chair by the window, hands folded in her lap. She asked to come. Wanted to be here. Three weeks ago, she couldn’t leave her room without dissociating. Now she’s here, watching me get an ultrasound, and my throat tightens with gratitude.

“Ready?” Dr. Petrov asks.

“Yes,” I say.

The wand presses against my stomach, and suddenly there’s an image on the screen. Gray and white and moving. A head. Tiny limbs. Fingers.

I can see fingers.

“Everything looks good,” Dr. Petrov says. “Strong heartbeat. Good size. Right on track for twenty-four weeks.”

My free hand moves to my stomach, covering the swell that’s impossible to hide now. I’ve surrendered to maternity clothes. Arkady bought me an entire wardrobe—designer labels I’ve never heard of, delivered in boxes that filled the bedroom.

When I tried to protest, he just looked at me and said, “You’re carrying my daughter. You’ll dress like it.”

Daughter. He’d said it with such certainty.

“Do you want to know the sex of the baby?” Dr. Petrov asks.

I look at Arkady. He nods.

“Yes,” I say.

Dr. Petrov smiles. “You’re having a girl. A healthy baby girl.”

A girl.

Tears fill my eyes, blurring the screen. I try to blink them back, but they’re already spilling over, hot against my temples.

Arkady’s hand tightens on mine. When I turn to look at him, his eyes are bright. Not crying—Arkady Laurov doesn’t cry—but there’s something there that wasn’t before. Something raw and unguarded.

“A girl,” he says. His voice is rough. “We’re having a girl.”

“Yeah,” I whisper.

“I knew it,” he says with typical Arkady certainty.

Debra stands and moves to the table, stopping beside Arkady. She looks at the screen, at the tiny human floating in that gray space. Then she touches my shoulder. Brief. Light. But contact.

“She’s perfect,” Debra says softly.

She is. Looking at that screen, at those little fingers and that beating heart, I know she’s perfect.

Dr. Petrov hands me tissues and cleans the gel off my stomach. Outside the window, the sky is gray and drizzling, but inside this room, everything feels warm.

“I’ll print the images for you,” Dr. Petrov says. “And I want to see you back in three weeks.”

Arkady helps me off the table, his hand on my elbow. We don’t speak as we leave, as we walk through the waiting room where other pregnant women sit flipping through magazines. We don’t speak in the elevator or in the car park where Stefan waits with the SUV.