Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(132)

Crossing my arms, I ask, “Why are you here, Misha? Dr. Mathers just told me she gave you the test results. You’ve had them for days. So you already know that you’re the father of my babies. Did it take time to process the disappointment?”

“No, it took me time to figure out how to say this.” He catches me off-guard by moving forward and taking my hand in his. “You’re right. I am a fucking asshole.”

I blink at him, the ability to speak stolen from me by the earnestness in his eyes. I’ve never seen them quite that shade of silver before. Like molten moonlight.

“I never should have said those things to you,” he continues. “I never should have doubted your motives or your character. I’m all too used to living in a world where people lie and cheat and deceive. It seemed too good to be true that I married the one woman who would break that mold.”

I want to tell them that there is good to be found in the world. In his own family, for starters.

But his apology tour continues before I can.

“I know that I hurt you, Paige. I’m sorry for that. Deeply and wholly sorry. I just hope that, in time, you can forgive me. For the sake of our future together and for the sake of our unborn children.”

He’s here, practically groveling for my forgiveness. It’s everything I hoped for. Everything I’ve dreamed about night after night. “I never thought I’d see the day when Misha Orlov would apologize to me. Or to anyone, for that matter,” I whisper. That’s true—and yet, the apology is dripping off his tongue as sweet as honey. “I know it isn’t easy for you to admit you’re wrong, but you’re doing a lovely job of it.” I hesitate.

Now comes the hard part.

“But nothing will ever make me forget the way I felt in that hospital room, listening to all of the horrible things you were saying about me. Marriage is about trust, and you didn’t believe me about the one thing that matters most of all. It’s not trust if you need scientific proof that you’re the father of our children, Misha.”

The hope in his eyes burns up to cinders in an instant. “That’s not how it happened. I realized I was wrong before I got the—”

“You know what?” I interrupt softly. “It doesn’t really matter. I know what you really think of me now, Misha. That’s not something I can forget even if I do manage to forgive it one day.”

“I wasn’t in the right state of mind that day, Paige—”

I free my hand from his, step away from him, and back up towards the windows. “You weren’t in the right state of mind? I’d just had a near-fatal allergic reaction. I almost lost my unborn children— two of them, which I also learned about for the first time that day. I needed support, not accusations.”

“You have every right to be pissed—”

“No, I’m beyond pissed,” I snap. Voicing all of this is making the pain more tangible. The feelings I’ve shoved down are rising to the surface faster than I can process them, and I’m seeing now just how thorny they are. “I’m so much more than ‘pissed’ that it’s going to take years to truly explain to you exactly how I feel. But I’ll tell you this much: I know I don’t deserve to be treated this way. And you’re not willing or able to give me that. You’ve said as much yourself. Now, I understand why.”

He sighs, but the sound roughens and verges on a growl. “Paige, you are still my wife. We are having these babies together. I will not have my children raised in a different household.”

That’s the problem. That’s where he has me. Because, at the end of the day… I don’t want that, either.

“No,” I whisper. “I’d rather not screw them up before they’re even born.”

“So you’ll come back home with me?” he asks.

I have a sinking feeling in my gut. “I will move back in… in a few days. That should be enough time for the maids to move my things to another room. We will live under the same roof, but we can lead separate lives. Just like you said you wanted.”

“Paige…” he breathes, his silver eyes boring into mine. I look away pointedly. If I gaze at those eyes for too long, I risk the chance of caving. “I fucked up. I know that.”

I take a deep breath and cling to my pendant for strength. “I appreciate the apology. I really do. But those things you said exposed what you really think of me. And you know what? You weren’t totally wrong, Misha. I am just a white trash kid whose heart never really made it out of the trailer park.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think that, Paige.”

“But you were wrong about the other parts of who I am,” I continue. “I am not a con artist or a thief; I am a survivor. I wasn’t born into privilege or wealth like you. Everything I have, I earned. That is nothing to be ashamed of, no matter what you might think.”

I’m used to Misha rising up to meet my moods. He never backs down from a fight.

Until today.

He lowers his head and sighs. It’s defeat dragging his shoulders to the earth. This is one fight he can’t muscle or shoot or roar his way through.

It’s killing him. It’s killing me, too—but I have to let that happen.

Because our children are the only things left that matter.