By the time Elara submitted the final phase of Natalia Volkov's vacation palace—because calling it a "home" felt like an insult to everything it was—she knew three things with absolute certainty:
One—she hated work. Not her job, not design itself—because interior design had always been her dream since the first time she rearranged her childhood bedroom furniture and decided her room should have "themes"—but work. The never-ending deadlines. The endless stream of revisions. The demanding clients who thought gold-plated sinks were too "modest." And most importantly, the emotional and mental exhaustion that came with working under a boss who thrived on overloading her with more and more just because she was reliable.
Two—she felt abused. Not in a literal sense, but in the way only a painfully stretched junior employee can feel when they're not only the dependable one but also the one who gets dumped with "special" clients, like the terrifyingly elegant Natalia Volkov who'd made it her personal mission to raise Elara's blood pressure every time she said, "I want something grand, but tasteful. Think Versailles but warmer."
Three—her period had decided to go MIA.
Now, that part wasn't exactly new. Stress had always wreaked havoc on her cycle, and with the past two weeks being nothing short of torture, she wasn't surprised. Still, it didn't stop the quiet dread from creeping into her stomach. She didn't feel anything abnormal, no symptoms, nothing that would warrant panic. It was just late, fashionably and inconveniently so.
She lay flat on her back across the plush sectional in the living room, a pillow tossed over her face. The ceiling above blurred slightly through the thin fabric. In my next life, she thought, I'm applying to a tiny design firm with no clients who think they're Egyptian royalty reincarnated. Her legs dangled off the side of the couch, her feet barely brushing the floor.
Her phone buzzed beside her, vibrating against the cushion.
With a groan, she peeled the pillow off her face and reached for the phone. The screen lit up with a familiar name.
Dad.
She smiled before opening the message.
> DAD: Just checking up on you. Are you still eating like a proper human being? Not skipping meals? Getting enough sleep? Staying sane?
There it was—the usual concern-packed check-in. Her father, a brilliant and often intimidating neurosurgeon, was also the world's most devoted helicopter parent. She adored him. She also dreaded texting him back when she had in fact eaten cereal for dinner three times this week and gone to bed at 2 a.m. five nights in a row.
She typed quickly.
> ELARA: I'm eating well. Sometimes late because of work, but don't worry. I always take care of myself. 😊
She paused, reread the message, and hit send.
Less than a minute later, his reply came through.
> DAD: I hope by "eating well" you don't mean cereal for dinner.
Elara pursed her lips, a half-smirk tugging at her mouth. She had eaten cereal for dinner. More than once. Especially on the nights when Nikolai was off doing whatever mysterious, likely-illegal thing he did when he said "I have a meeting."
Still, she wasn't about to admit that.
> ELARA: Nope. I eat real food. You and Mom raised me well. 😇
She tossed the phone to the side with a guilty sigh and sat up, stretching until her spine popped. Her muscles ached from sitting hunched over her desk for hours at a time, and her eyes burned from too much screen time.
She needed air.
She padded to her bedroom to freshen up, brushing out her tangled hair, rinsing her face, and trading her oversized lounge shirt for a thin black camisole and soft sweatpants. Comfort over style. Always.
Then, she walked barefoot to the balcony that extended from the living room, a wide glass door that led to one of the best views of the city.
She pushed the door open and stepped out, the cool evening breeze instantly brushing against her skin. The city below was buzzing with life. Car horns. Distant music. Neon signs flickering. People moving like ants, scattered along the sidewalks, all with destinations she didn't know and lives she'd never live.
The sky had turned a bruised shade of purple and blue, and lights twinkled in the high rises like stars caught in concrete.
She leaned against the railing, arms crossed lightly over her chest, and just… breathed. It was one of the few things she could do without needing to impress a client or revise a plan. Just breathe.
Behind her, the sound of footsteps and a low voice pulled her attention.
Nikolai.
She turned slightly and spotted him through the open balcony door. He hadn't noticed her yet—he was pacing slowly through the living room, his phone pressed to his ear, voice low and rough as he spoke in rapid Russian.
His expression was hard, sharper than usual. Whatever he was talking about, it wasn't light. His brow was furrowed, his jaw tight. Every now and then, his hand would flex by his side, as though fighting the urge to slam it into something.
She didn't understand the words—she had picked up a few phrases since moving in, enough to know when he was angry or frustrated—but the tone alone was enough to tell her that it had to do with Bratva business.
She exhaled through her nose, turning her gaze back to the city.
She didn't want to know. Not tonight. Not after spending the past week buried under the pressure of a project that had her doubting whether she was cut out for this career. Not when her body still hadn't figured out what it wanted to do with her hormones. Not when her mind was already overstimulated.
This was her little moment. Her few precious minutes of calm before the storm returned.
And right now, she wanted to pretend—for just a little longer—that she was simply a woman who had wrapped up a demanding project, was watching the world below with a warm breeze on her skin, and that her complicated, dangerous boyfriend was just another workaholic on a stressful call.
The illusion never lasted long, but for now, it was enough.
She closed her eyes and listened to the city breathe.
-----------
Elara sat on the couch in the living room, legs folded beneath her, a blanket draped haphazardly across her lap, and the TV on—but muted. A crime documentary flickered on the screen, showing grainy surveillance footage of a suspect on the run. Normally, she would be intrigued. But tonight, her eyes barely registered the images. She wasn't watching.
She was staring.
Blankly. Aimlessly. Thoughts whirling so loudly inside her head that the silence around her felt deafening.
Her arms were folded tightly against her chest, not out of cold, but out of the tight, clenched panic she couldn't quite name. Or maybe she could. She just didn't want to.
It's nothing. You're just being paranoid. It's happened before.
Her periods had always been irregular—especially during stressful months. And these past few weeks had been nothing but stress. Client deadlines. Her boss's insatiable demands. Natalia Volkov's palace masquerading as a "vacation home." Not to mention trying to coexist under the same roof with a dangerous, sinfully beautiful man who belonged to the Bratva.
Stress? She was practically bathing in it.
And yet…
This time felt different.
She'd always brushed it off in the past. But tonight, for some reason, the fear was harder to ignore. Maybe it was because she had actually sat down, for the first time in days, and the silence gave her mind room to wander—dangerously.
Her gaze drifted to the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. The city lights twinkled, casting ghostly patterns across the floor. She swallowed.
A few weeks ago, she and Nikolai had gotten…intimate. It hadn't been planned. She had been drinking—though she remembered the night vividly. How he'd looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered. How his touch had burned into her skin. How he hadn't stopped.
He hadn't pulled out.
She clenched her fists at the memory, her stomach twisting.
She had taken a Plan B. She had. Right the next morning. She wasn't irresponsible. She had made sure to buy it and take it immediately, no hesitation. But still…
Plan B wasn't a guarantee.
And she'd been ovulating.
Her breath caught in her throat.
No. No. That's not it. She shook her head slightly, as if trying to shake the thoughts out of her skull. You're overthinking. Again. This has happened before. You're just late.
But a tiny, persistent voice whispered from the back of her mind.
What if you're not?
What if she was carrying something—someone—a fragile, unwanted link between her and the man she was still unsure she could ever fully trust? A child would mean permanence. It would mean being tethered. Being bound in a way she couldn't escape.
And worst of all, it would mean bringing a baby into a world where blood and bullets were just business.
"No," she whispered to herself, shaking her head more forcefully. "No. No way. I can't be."
She ran a hand through her tangled hair and exhaled shakily. Her throat felt dry. Her skin hot and prickling. She couldn't sit here any longer. The walls were closing in.
Decision made, she got up and moved on autopilot.
She went to her room, peeled off her cotton tee and sweatpants, and replaced them with a pair of loose black jeans and an oversized hoodie—one of her own, not Nikolai's. She slipped on her sneakers, grabbed her wallet and keys, and headed out the door.
The city was alive even at this hour, the glow of neon lights bouncing off car hoods and shop windows. Her footsteps echoed as she walked down the quiet sidewalk near the penthouse. She didn't need to walk far; there was a 24-hour pharmacy just three blocks away.
The automatic doors opened with a soft chime as she entered, and the sterile white brightness hit her like a slap. For a second, she just stood there, blinking, heart pounding in her chest.
She felt like everyone was watching her. Like the woman behind the counter somehow knew. Knew she was here to buy a pregnancy test. Knew she was scared out of her mind.
Get it done. Just go.
Elara walked briskly to the feminine care aisle, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for a box—not one, but three. She didn't trust just one. She needed confirmation. Reassurance.
Three different brands. Just in case.
She paid quickly, head down, and walked out with the small white bag tucked tightly under her arm like it was something shameful.
The city felt colder now. Or maybe it was just the chill in her bones.
When she got back to the penthouse, it was still quiet. Still empty. Nikolai hadn't returned yet. She was both relieved and uneasy. The fewer questions she had to answer right now, the better.
She dropped the bag on her bathroom counter, locked the door behind her, and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
She looked tired. Haunted. Her skin was pale, her eyes dull with exhaustion and fear. She didn't look like someone who had her life together. She looked like someone on the verge of something she couldn't control.
She unboxed the first test. Then the second. Then the third. Following the instructions to the letter. She moved with precision, mechanically, like if she didn't think about it too hard it wouldn't feel so real.
When she was done, she lined the tests up on the counter.
She didn't look.
She couldn't. Not yet.
She sat down on the closed toilet lid, hugging her knees to her chest, and buried her face in her arms. Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear her own thoughts.
"Just wait a few minutes," she whispered.
She closed her eyes.
Waited.
Breathing in silence, with nothing but the ticking of the wall clock and the soft rush of air from the vent above her.
And then—slowly—she would look.
But not yet.
Not just yet.