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I don’t know how the topic of my dad came up. I don’t know why I decided that sharing all that information with Dmitri was a good idea.
I just know that for once I didn’t want to feel so alone.
And talking to him accomplished that.
Feeling less alone accomplished what followed: sprawling on the couch in Dmitri’s living room and touching myself while I fantasized about him making good on his threat to spank my ass until he left behind a permanent imprint of his hand.
It wasn’t until after I came that the guilt settled in. I was sitting legs akimbo in the home he shared with his fiancée—a woman I actually happen to like—and I was getting off to her man.
Honestly, how dare I?
So I spent the next day and a half avoiding Dmitri. That turned out to be a breeze, because he seemed just as intent on avoiding me. He probably just wasn’t interested in hearing any more sob stories from my childhood.
It also seems that that’s the status quo now. Or at least, I assume that that’s why he’s staring at the road with that stony scowl on his face. It says, Closed for Business. Do Not Share Sad Tales. Do Not Even THINK Of Attempting Interpersonal Connection.
“Why can’t we just stick to Dr. Saeder?”
He barks out a harsh laugh. “Is that a serious question? Hell no. Fuck no. My son gets only the best and Dr. Saeder has proven to be far less than that.”
I sigh and turn back to my window. I’m not sure why I’m resisting so much. It probably has a little something to do with the amount of control he currently exerts over my life. I guess questioning him from time to time allows me to feel as though I haven’t lost all my autonomy.
As it turns out, I actually like Dr. Liza. She’s a smart, middle-aged woman with thin, scanty hair faded to a mature gray. She goes through my entire history first before she examines me head to toe with patient professionalism. Once she’s determined that I’m healthy, she moves on to the sonogram.
“There he is,” she purrs with a smile, pulling the screen closer so that I can get a better look.
Dmitri leans in alongside me and I get a whiff of his dark, musky aftershave. I cringe away instinctively. I could swear his face twinges with something, but he’s too far in the corner of my eye to be sure.
“Everything’s okay?”
“Definitely,” Dr. Liza assures him. “He’s a healthy boy. And right on track for fourteen weeks.”
“My God,” Dmitri mutters under his breath. If I weren’t so hyper-aware of him, I might have missed that awed little exclamation altogether. “There he is.”
For once, his attention is focused away from me. I can stare at his face and take in just how shocked and amazed he looks. When I look back at the screen, it’s with fresh eyes.
I’ve been so conditioned to think of this baby as Rose and Jared’s that I haven’t truly accepted that the little life force inside me is mine. Truly and completely mine.
At the end of this journey, I’m the one who will hold the title of mother.
It’s breathtaking and terrifying in the same instant. Without thinking, I grasp the only hand available. The calloused warmth is like a cattle prod to the nervous system, though, which prompts me to snap out of my daze and realize that it’s not Rose’s hand I’m holding; it’s Dmitri’s.
“Sorry,” I mumble, ripping it away.
He doesn’t say anything apart from straightening up and thanking the doctor. We say our mumbled goodbyes and depart.
As we’re driving away from Dr. Liza’s facility, Dmitri clears his throat. “Are you hungry?”
I am indeed hungry. I’m also eager. A little too eager at the prospect of having lunch with him. That’s precisely why I shake my head. “Not really. I just want to go ho—to the penthouse.”
He doesn’t try to change my mind. The drive back is filled with a pregnant silence, pardon the pun. The moment we’re in the penthouse, I grab a box of Doritos and Oreos and retreat to my room.
I’m in there for an hour or so before I hear a knock on my door. I glance outside. The sun is only just beginning to set, so there’s no way I can pretend I’ve already fallen asleep. Then again, I am pregnant. Surely I can get away with?—
“Wren?”
I tense up immediately. It’s Bee. Usually, I’d be happy to hang out with her, but right now, I feel like a homewrecking bitch who’s been coveting her man. How can I even look her in the eye, knowing what I did on her couch?
“Wren, can I come in please?” she asks. “I know you’re awake. You’re not as quiet as you think you are.”
