Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(22)

I’m in a hospital, but it’s unlike any hospital I’ve ever been in. Homey touches everywhere take away some of the antiseptic blandness that makes every hospital I’ve ever experienced feel so inhumane.

This one isn’t like that. Fresh flowers rest in a vase next to my IV bags and pleasant prints of rolling meadow landscapes line the walls. A TV in the corner plays soothing nature reels on a slow loop.

I’m admiring the bronze light fixture over the sink when I realize there’s another nurse in the room.

She’s got one of those Cindy Crawford moles on her cheek.

Mama had one under her right eye that she always hated. She swore when she had enough money, she’d get it removed. I wonder if she has. I doubt it.

“Can I get you anything, ma’am?” the nurse asks with a comforting smile.

“Water would be nice,” I mumble.

There’s a water pitcher next to flowers. She fills a cup for me and tucks it into my hand. “Drink slowly so you don’t make yourself sick,” she instructs. “If you’re hungry, we can have something brought up for you in just a bit.”

I take a few sips and have to force myself not to gulp it down. I’m parched. “This place is like a hotel.”

The nurse smiles. “The private rooms are quite nice.”

Private room. Sounds expensive. I have no idea how I made my way to a private room. I have no idea how I made my way to a hospital at all, actually.

“I’m sorry if this sounds dumb, but… can you tell me what happened?”

Her eyebrows knit together for a moment before she consciously unclenches and puts her Good Nurse face back on. “I believe you were in a car accident. I don’t know the details. Perhaps you should wait until your husband comes in.”

I stare at her, trying to sort through the tangle of memories and questions in my mind. Maybe Anthony is still my emergency contact, but even if that were somehow bizarrely true, there’s no way he’d answer a call, right? And even if he did, he sure as hell wouldn’t show up here, right? Lord knows he hasn’t answered any of my calls. Was the prospect of my death enough to coax him out of whatever hole he crawled into?

“My… husband is here?” I ask tentatively.

“Yes, ma’am,” she says gently, clearly under the impression that what she’s sharing is comforting information. “He’s out in the hallway speaking to your doctor. I’m sure, once he’s done with the paperwork, he’ll be in to see you.”

Nothing about this makes sense.

A car accident. So… I was in a car. That’s a place to start.

Where was I going? Maybe to work?

Work…

The pieces of the puzzle fall into place one after the other, a row of dominoes tumbling down with a sickening series of clicks.

Misha.

Ivanov Industries.

The gun-filled standoff between him and the CEO with the nasty eyes.

It all hits me like another car accident. Before I can fully process everything, Misha walks into my hospital room.

“There he is!” the nurse says, giving me a smile. “She’s been asking for you, sir.”

I have?

Misha doesn’t even look at the woman. His eyes are pinned on me. “Would you mind giving my wife and me some privacy?”

The nurse nods and slips out of the room. I’m left alone, still reeling. Honestly, I should’ve known.

“Wh… what the hell are you playing at?” I demand through fat, stubborn lips.

“I’m supposed to be gentle with you,” he says impatiently, like he’s obeying that instruction but he’s not happy about it. “They said you might be disoriented.”

“Not disoriented enough to miss the fact that you’re parading around as my husband!”

“They wouldn’t give me the results of your test unless I was a direct family member,” he explains with a shrug.

But it isn’t an explanation at all. “What test?”

“In the course of treating you, the doctors needed to know as much about your current health as possible. They ran a few tests. One of them returned with an… interesting result.”

My stomach bottoms out. “Misha,” I breathe, “what kind of—A test? What test is it? Am I—”

“You’re pregnant.”

I blink slowly, the information bouncing off of me like a rubber ball off a black top. “I can’t get pregnant.”

“We have proof that you are.”

I shiver and pull the covers up over my body, as if that’ll hide me from him. As if that’ll protect me from him. “We don’t have anything. You had no right! This is my body. I get to decide what’s done to it. You aren’t my husband. I did not consent to you knowing anything about my health or—”

But the words are fluttering and dying on my lips. Premature baby birds that never had a chance of taking to the air. It’s loss in its purest form, desperate and ugly. That weird and intangible sense of failure.

This feeling and I are on very, very intimate terms.

The first time we met, I was sitting in a different room in a different hospital. Anthony got caught up with work at the office, so I was alone.

Building a business means making personal sacrifices. Anthony repeated that all the time. It might’ve been annoying if I didn’t agree with him. Besides, I wasn’t afraid of making sacrifices. I