Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(23)

wanted to be better than my parents. More generous, more supportive, more willing to sacrifice for the greater good.

Even when it felt like I was the one doing most of the sacrificing.

“I’m sorry, Paige,” Dr. Gilpin told me that day, his hands clasped together on his desk. “From what we are able to tell, it will be impossible for you to ever get pregnant.”

I knew intellectually that it wasn’t my fault. Emotionally, it was a whole different story. The framed picture of Dr. Gilpin on a fishing trip with his two grinning boys on his desk felt like a slap in the face. The sound of a baby crying in the hallway outside felt like a knife in the gut.

Impossible. Impossible. Impossible.

What a violent, disgusting word.

The way I felt then is the way I feel now as the door opens and a new, strange doctor walks into my room. He’s an older man with drooping eyes and rounded shoulders. But his hands—those are just like Dr. Gilpin’s. Pale and frail and veiny and somehow nauseating. Do all doctors who come with terrible news have hands like that?

“This man is not my husband!” I cry out pitifully. “And I did not consent to a pregnancy test.”

All he does is slide his eyes from me to Misha. And that’s all it takes for me to understand that this doctor does not give a flying fuck what I did or did not consent to.

Only one person in this room gets to make decisions.

And that person isn’t me.

“For the purposes of your stay in this hospital, let’s pretend he is your husband,” the doctor says diplomatically. “Now, Mrs. Orlov—”

I flinch. “Don’t call me that.”

He purses his lips. Whatever Misha paid him, it must have been a lot. “I have the results of the test, and—”

“No!” I yell. “This is ridiculous. I already told my so-called husband here that it’s impossible for me to get pregnant in the first place. Im-poss-i-ble.” I sound out every syllable, clapping between them.

The word tastes as nasty on my lips as it did on my ears when Dr. Gilpin said it.

The man doesn’t even blink. Why doesn’t he understand how painful this is for me? Why doesn’t anyone?

For years, I tried. Just for Anthony’s sake. He wanted kids so badly, and I knew I couldn’t give them to him. Still, I kept trying.

“Maybe we’ll have a miracle,” I said in the aftermath of more sex I didn’t want, even though I didn’t believe miracles existed—or if they did, they didn’t happen to me. “You never know what can happen.”

But I knew. I knew then as well as I do now: I can’t get pregnant. I won’t go through the paint of lying to myself again. Not for Anthony or Misha or anyone.

“Mrs. Orlov—”

“My name is Paige Masters,” I say, cutting the doctor off. “You can call me Ms. Masters or Paige. Or, preferably, nothing at all.”

The doctor raises his eyebrows a fraction. “Ms. Masters, who told you that you couldn’t get pregnant?”

My gaze flickers to Misha. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“While you are in my hospital, your health is my concern. I want to understand what you’re going through. If I can, I’d like to help.”

I frown. He sounds sincere, but then again, so did Anthony for the last six years, and we all know how that turned out. “I can’t get pregnant. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”

He approaches the bed and offers me the paper in his hand. “This test shows that it isn’t impossible.

You are undeniably pregnant, ma’am.”

I stare at the paper in his hand, unable to reach out and grab it. But I’m close enough to read, and what I’m seeing boils down to one word.

Miracle.





16

PAIGE

I can’t breathe or talk. I just look at the paper. At the neat little print that says POSITIVE. As if one little word can just overrule so many endless nights of tears and pain and self-loathing.

When that refuses to compute, I look up at the doctor. His wan face. His pursed lips. His watery blue eyes. Those hands.

He looks back at me for the length of one disbelieving breath before his eyes slide over to Misha again. I follow, feeling suddenly sick to my stomach as I remember something.

I’m not the only one whose life just changed forever.

Misha’s eyes boil. His jaw is tight, brutally tight. Every muscle in his body quivers with tension.

I called it a miracle.

He doesn’t seem to agree.

The doctor must see the same thing I’m seeing, because he clears his throat and draws my attention back to him. “Ms. Masters, we have facilities available in this hospital that will allow you to… make a decision.”

“A decision?”

“On whether you want to… to keep the baby or not.”

I refuse to even glance Misha’s way before I answer. “I don’t need to make a decision, Doctor,” I tell him, spitting out the last word. For once, my voice doesn’t shake. “The decision is already made. I’m keeping the baby.”

“Ah. Well then, congratulations,” he says, but I don’t miss the way he shoots another concerned glance in Misha’s direction.

I ignore his discomfort. “When can I be discharged?”