Positive.
Two pink lines.
Not one. Two.
Elara stared at them like they were written in a language she couldn't understand. Her fingers trembled as she held the first stick, then the second, then the third. All of them…positive.
No. No. No…
She read the instructions again, her eyes scanning the small print like somehow they would change. Like maybe this wasn't a positive result, maybe there had been a mistake in how she took the tests, maybe the lines weren't supposed to look like that. Maybe…
But there was no mistake. It was clear. Unforgiving. Brutally honest.
Pregnant.
Her breath hitched in her throat, and the test fell from her hands, clattering softly against the tiled bathroom floor. A sharp, metallic taste filled her mouth. She could barely breathe.
No… this isn't happening.
Her knees buckled under her weight, and she collapsed onto the cold floor tiles, her back against the wall as a wave of nausea and disbelief rolled over her like a storm. Her body trembled violently. Tears gathered in her eyes and spilled over before she could stop them. She didn't sob. Not at first. Her breathing was shallow, sharp, panicked—like the air had been stolen from her lungs.
This couldn't be real.
It couldn't be this.
Not now. Not like this.
She pressed her hand against her flat stomach, her palm cold and trembling. "No…" she whispered, voice cracking. "No, I can't—I don't want this."
She didn't want it. Not because she hated children. No. But because this child—this innocent, unborn life—would be tied to him.
To Nikolai Volkov.
The man she was half in love with, half terrified of. The man who lived in a world soaked in blood, where guns were drawn faster than words were spoken, where people disappeared, and bodies were buried with no questions asked. A world of danger, of shadows, of secrets she didn't even want to know.
And now—now she was carrying his child?
The tears came harder now. Heaving, body-shaking sobs that she tried to smother by pressing her hand over her mouth. She didn't want him to hear her—not from the other room, not from the hallway, not from anywhere. If he even suspected something was wrong, he would come bursting through the door. He would see the tests. He would know.
And if Nikolai found out…
She shivered at the thought. She could already imagine it.
He would chain her in this penthouse, lock every exit, place guards at every door and window. She would never see the light of day without him by her side. And worse—he would be happy. He would see the pregnancy as a bond, a claim. Proof that she belonged to him in more ways than one.
This wasn't just a baby.
This was a prison sentence.
Elara cried harder, curling into herself on the bathroom floor. Her chest ached. Her breath caught in her throat over and over. She didn't even realize how much time passed—how many minutes or hours she sat there, her cheek pressed against the cold tile, wishing she could rewind time and undo that one night when everything had spun out of control.
Why hadn't she remembered a condom? Why hadn't he pulled out?
And why—why did part of her feel guilty even now for blaming him?
Because deep down she knew—it wasn't just his fault. She'd let herself forget everything in that moment, let the lines blur between lust and consequence. She had known the risks. She had taken the pill. She had thought that would be enough.
But it wasn't.
And now she was pregnant with a child she hadn't planned for, with a man she wasn't sure she could build a life with. A man who, if he found out, would see this child as something sacred—a reason to finally cage her permanently.
She couldn't do it.
She couldn't bring this baby into that world. Into his world. A world where death lingered like perfume, where love came with shackles instead of flowers.
She sat up slowly, her hands shaking as she wiped her tear-streaked face. She stumbled to the sink, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on her cheeks. Her reflection in the mirror looked like a ghost—eyes red and swollen, face pale and drained of life.
Her lips trembled as she placed a hand gently over her stomach again.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, barely audible, her voice raw. "I really am. But I can't do this. I can't let you be born into this."
She closed her eyes, tears slipping free again. "You deserve more than a cage. You deserve more than fear. You deserve a chance I can't give you."
Her mind was made up.
Tomorrow—early—she would find a clinic. Quiet, discreet, no questions asked. She would take care of it before he returned from wherever he was. Before he could ask questions. Before he could notice anything.
And if somehow that didn't work—if somehow he found out or stopped her—then the only option left would be to run.
Escape. Disappear.
She didn't know how. Not yet. But she would find a way.
Because this baby couldn't tie her down. It couldn't be a leash that dragged her deeper into the darkness. It couldn't be a shackle handed down in the shape of lullabies and cribs.
She wouldn't allow it.
She wouldn't let this life—the one he lived—be the only future her child ever knew.
---------------
It was exactly 7:00 AM when Elara finally slid out of bed, her limbs heavy with exhaustion but her mind still as awake and wired as it had been all night. She hadn't slept. Not a minute. The hours had dragged by like shadows, her thoughts gnawing at her relentlessly. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw two pink lines. Every time she tried to breathe, her lungs collapsed beneath the weight of the decision she had made.
Her body felt foreign. Her skin didn't feel like hers anymore. Her reflection in the mirror had looked like someone else entirely. She had showered under steaming water until her fingers wrinkled, but nothing could cleanse the ache blooming in her chest. Nothing could erase the fear, the guilt, the conflict.
She had made the appointment last night—an online form, quiet and quick, for a clinic she had found after digging deep into threads and forums that recommended discretion above all else. It was located on the outer edge of the city, in a crumbling brick building tucked between a discount bookstore and an auto-repair shop. There were no cameras. No waiting lines. No one would recognize her there.
That was all she needed. To disappear for just a few hours. To make this decision hers and hers alone.
She dressed in silence, her hands trembling as she pulled on a pair of soft jeans and an oversized black hoodie. Her hair was tied back in a messy knot. No makeup. No jewelry. She looked plain, invisible—just another woman with a heavy secret and a long walk ahead of her.
She grabbed her phone and her purse, the essentials. Nothing else.
Stepping out of her bedroom felt like walking through glass. Her ears were hyperaware, straining for the sound of footsteps. But there was nothing. Nikolai's door was still closed.
Good.
She paused in the entryway, glancing toward the darkened hallway that led to his room. A pang of guilt stabbed through her chest. He was just behind that wall, peacefully asleep—or so she hoped. She didn't want to think about what would happen if he found out. If he knew.
Swallowing hard, she turned and quietly opened the front door. It clicked shut behind her with barely a whisper.
---
The taxi ride to the clinic was silent, the driver not saying a word, which she was grateful for. She pressed her forehead to the cold window, watching the city blur by. Her stomach churned, but not from nausea. From nerves. Fear. A strange kind of mourning that she couldn't explain. She hated herself for crying again, but the tears slipped down anyway, hot and quiet.
The clinic was exactly as advertised: small, discreet, with weather-worn signage and frosted windows. Inside, the waiting area was dimly lit, furnished with outdated chairs and dull beige walls. A sleepy receptionist with glasses hanging low on her nose checked Elara in with no questions, only asking for her name and appointment time.
She was ushered into a small room at the end of the hallway. Pale green walls. A narrow bed with paper sheets. A monitor. Medical instruments neatly arranged on a silver tray. The nurse was kind, her eyes soft but unreadable, as though trained to show no judgment, no sympathy—only routine.
"You sure about this?" the nurse asked, her voice gentle.
Elara nodded, her jaw tight. "Yes."
"Okay. Just lie back. This will only take a few minutes. I'll explain everything as we go."
Elara took a slow breath and lay down. The crinkling of the thin paper beneath her sounded like thunder in her ears. Her fingers twisted together in her lap. Her heartbeat pounded against her ribs.
The nurse moved to her side, reaching for a pair of gloves and sliding them on. "I'll begin in just a moment, okay? You're going to be alright."
Elara stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the cracks.
One... two... three...
The nurse turned to the tray and picked up the first instrument, her expression focused.
And then—
BANG.
The door slammed open with such force it hit the wall.
Elara shot upright, her heart leaping into her throat.
Standing in the doorway—dressed in black, his expression thunderous, jaw clenched and eyes like wildfire—was Nikolai.
Behind him were two of his men, both tall and armed, their eyes scanning the room like predators ready to strike.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Nikolai said, his voice like ice cracked over a storm.
The nurse froze, her hand in mid-air.
Elara couldn't breathe.
She couldn't move.
Her blood ran cold.
He knew.
He knew.
And he had come.