The one time I open the door without checking the peephole, I come face to face with the person I’m most desperate to avoid.
“Oh.” My face falls. “It’s you.”
The frown lines on Stefan’s forehead deepen, carving shadows into his skin. Outside, the morning sun backlights him in gold, making him look like some avenging angel sent specifically to torment me.
“Thanks for that,” he drawls. “Really makes a man feel special.”
“If you feel any particular way about the situation between us, it’s on you, not me.”
I’m about to slam the door in his face—want to feel the satisfying percussion of wood meeting frame, or, preferably, wood meeting his smug nose—but he stops me by shoving his foot in the doorway.
“Move your foot,” I snap.
“No can do. We have an appointment to get to.”
I shove the door harder against his foot, putting my weight into it. It’s gotta hurt, but he doesn’t flinch. Those slate-grey eyes just hold mine with infuriating steadiness.
“What appointment?” I ask.
“A check-up for the baby. You haven’t had a single doctor’s appointment yet and it’s past time you did.”
With a casual push of his palm—barely any effort at all, damn him—he forces the door open and I retreat into the room. The morning light floods in behind him, and suddenly, my sanctuary feels invaded.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Do you have to be so damn stubborn?”
“Please.” I hiss the word through clenched teeth. “If I’m stubborn, then you’re the… king of… stubborn.”
He raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching with amusement he’s not even trying to hide. “Very clever.”
“Shut up. I’ve been throwing up all morning.” My stomach still feels like it’s been wrung out like a dishcloth, twisted and sour.
“They have pills for that, you know. I wonder where we could go to get them?” He snaps his fingers, the sound sharp in the tense air between us. “Oh, right. An OBGYN.”
“I don’t need pills. I’ll just wait it out.” Even as I say it, another wave of nausea rolls through me, making my skin clammy.
“You need to be able to keep something down. You barely ate anything last night. This morning, you only managed toast.” He crosses his arms, and the fabric of his charcoal shirt pulls tight across his shoulders. “And half of that ended up in the toilet.”
“Are you spying on me?”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “If you won’t talk to me, I have no other choice.”
“How about the choice not to be an ass?”
“I believe in achievable goals.”
There’s a stray lock of dark hair falling against his forehead, slightly mussed from the morning breeze. I hate that I notice. Even now, when I want to scratch his eyes out, my body still responds to him—that familiar tug low in my belly, the awareness that prickles across my skin. Does he have to look so hot even when he’s being irritating as hell?
“You can cancel the appointment. I’m not going.”
“I understand that you’re pissed at me. But don’t take it out on the baby.” His tone shifts, turning velvety, persuasive. “We need to make sure our little one is doing okay.”
He’s hitting me with both barrels now—charm and logic. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Fine!” I cry out in frustration. “But I don’t want to talk on the drive there.”
He smirks, and it’s infuriating how good he looks doing it—that curl of his lips, the knowing glint in his eyes. “How thoughtful of you. You saved me the trouble of having to ask for the same thing.”
My hands ball into fists. “Are you trying to be an ass or does it just flow from you naturally?”
“I’d answer you, but we’re not talking, remember?”
He walks away and I flip him the bird behind his back. It makes me feel better, even if he missed it entirely. Muttering furiously under my breath—a string of creative insults my mother would wash my mouth out for—I grab my purse and follow him through the manor.
The hallways feel longer today, each one a tunnel of beige walls and expensive artwork that blurs in my peripheral vision. Or maybe it’s just that I’m trailing behind him like some sullen teenager being dragged to detention.
We get to the circular driveway where his Maserati is parked, the engine already purring. The black paint gleams in the sun, every curve of it screaming money and power.
I can’t even explain the degree to which it pisses me off. He’s so confident he left the car running while he came to get me. He knew I’d cave.
True to his word—or mine, I’m not even sure which—we drive in complete silence to a private clinic just outside Boston. The interior of the car feels thick and oppressive, filled with all the things neither of us is saying. Unspoken words pile up in the space between us, growing heavier with each mile. I keep my eyes on the passing scenery, watching trees give way to suburban sprawl give way to the polished steel and glass of expensive medical facilities.
The leather seat is cool against my bare legs. The air conditioning hums. Stefan’s cologne—something dark and woodsy with notes of bergamot—fills the confined space, making it impossible to forget he’s there.
Not that I could forget anyway.
Astoria Clinic is exactly what I expected. The lobby is all marble floors, tasteful abstract paintings on the walls, fresh white flowers at the reception desk. A clinic I would have loved to run one day, back when my dreams were a little more complicated.
Now, they feel reduced to basics.
Stay alive. Keep your baby safe. Don’t let your feelings for him cloud your judgment.
Simple in theory. Unbelievably difficult to uphold day to day.
Stefan parks right in front of the “No Parking” sign—bright red letters that might as well be invisible to him—and beats me to my own door, opening it before I can. A blast of warm air hits me as I step out. I get out without so much as a “thank you” and stride ahead of him into the clinic.
If he’s going to treat me like a glorified prisoner, then I can get away with treating him like my driver.
My very hot driver who’s very much off-limits right now.
Not that my hormones have gotten the memo.
We breeze past all the couples sitting in the waiting area—smiling, hand-holding couples who look like they actually like each other, who lean into each other and whisper and laugh. Their happiness feels like an accusation.
An older nurse with kind eyes and laugh lines shows us straight to an examination room, her smile warm and genuine. “The doctor will be in to see you in a moment,” she chirps before disappearing in a swish of pale blue scrubs.
A poster on the wall shows fetal development week by week, tiny forms growing larger panel by panel. Another showing proper breastfeeding positions, illustrated mothers with serene expressions.
I look away from both, my throat tight.
I sit down in the chair in front of the doctor’s desk and pointedly ignore Stefan, who’s busy strutting around the room. He inspects the diplomas on the wall like he’s genuinely interested in Dr. Kostas’s credentials, his head tilted slightly as he reads.
The seconds tick by on the wall clock, each one marked by a soft mechanical click. My annoyance doesn’t fade with them. If anything, it builds, pressure mounting behind my sternum.
“You realize that I’m not the one who did anything wrong, right?” I snap. “You’re the ass here. Not me.”
He turns from the wall, one eyebrow raised, lips pressed together. “I thought we weren’t talking?”
“We’re not! I’m just making an observation. You don’t get to huff around in surly silence as though I’m the one who did something wrong.”
“Here’s my observation: You’re so damn scared of being hurt that you’re determined to create drama between us.”
“Excuse me!” I splutter, jerking up from my seat. My purse slides off my lap and I barely catch it. The urge to throw it at him is almost overwhelming. “I don’t have to find anything when you’ve been generous enough to give me a fuck ton of reasons. And as for the drama—that’s all you, buddy!”
His expression is purposefully calm, like he’s discussing the weather or the stock market. Not the train wreck that is us. “‘She said dramatically.’”
That’s it. Screw him.
“You want drama?” I hiss, my voice low and dangerous. “Here’s some real life drama for you.”
Then I throw my handbag right at his head.
Unfortunately for me, the timing of my throw aligns with the exact moment the doctor walks into the examination room. He stops short in the doorway, his smile faltering as Stefan sidesteps my projectile with infuriating ease. The bag hits the wall behind him with a satisfying thud, then drops to the floor with a clatter of its contents.
“Well,” the doctor begins. “Good morning. I’m Dr. Kostas.” He adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses, taking in the scene before him with widening eyes. “Am I interrupting something?”
Stefan picks my bag up off the floor—crouching gracefully, gathering the scattered lipstick and keys—and hands it back to me like we’re at a garden party and he’s just retrieved my dropped napkin.
“Olivia here was just illustrating how she plans on passing me the baby.”
The doctor adjusts his blood red tie and walks over to his desk. His white coat billows behind him as he tries to figure out what expression to assume, bewilderment or amusement.
He settles on a cross between both as he sits, gesturing for us to do the same. His movements are practiced, professional, but there’s uncertainty in his eyes. “As your doctor, I must advise you to refrain from throwing the baby around. At least for the first several months.”
“You hear that, honey?” Stefan shoots me a wicked smile. “No throwing the baby around.”
I throw him a warning smile right back, all teeth and no warmth whatsoever. “I’ll try and remember that.” I sit back down, the chair creaking, and face Dr. Kostas, who’s looking between Stefan and me with the dawning realization that he’s just stepped into a field riddled with landmines.
Poor bastard.
“I’ve read through your medical file, Olivia. Everything seems—”
“What do you mean you’ve read through my medical file?” I demand, forgetting in the moment to be polite, to be the good patient. My voice rises. “I didn’t give you access to that information.”
Kaboom. There goes the first landmine.
His smile falters. “I was sent your file prior to this appointment, Mrs. Safonova.”
Oh, hell no. “The name is Miss Aster, Dr. Kostas. Or Dr. Aster. I will even answer to Olivia. But Mrs. Safonova is someone entirely different and far more special.” I shoot Stefan a glare that could melt his face off. “She has regenerative powers. I’m just pregnant.”
Dr. Kostas looks lost. His pen hovers over his notepad, frozen. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure I followed much of that.”
“I sent Dr. Kostas your file,” Stefan explains with exasperation. Judging from his expression, he probably thinks I’m being “dramatic” again. “I figured it would save us some time.”
I twist toward Stefan, my neck muscles straining. “I didn’t authorize that. How did you get your hands on my private medical file?”
“Your mother was very helpful.” He drops that little bomb with relish, and I can see the satisfaction in his eyes—that gleam of victory, like he’s just played a winning hand.
Talk about a giant “fuck you.” And he hasn’t so much as lifted a finger. I should really be taking lessons from him.
“You spoke to my mother?”
“She was very keen to assist. Sent everything I asked for right over.” He examines his nails like this is all terribly boring. “Actually, I believe she offered to drop them off herself. But I didn’t want to spend the next two hours showing her around the manor while she fawned all over me.”
I can feel the burn spreading across my cheeks, creeping down my neck. I’m not sure if it’s anger or pure embarrassment or some toxic combination of both. Either way, I’m contemplating throwing something else at Stefan’s head. Something heavier this time.
The bronze medical award on Dr. Kostas’s desk catches my eye—substantial, weighty, with sharp edges. It would make a satisfying crack against his skull.
Then again, Stefan’s head is so thick, he might do more damage to it than it could do to him.
“I can’t believe you spoke to my mother!”
“Why not? You spoke to mine.”
My jaw drops. The air leaves my lungs. But at this rate, I’ve abandoned all hope of appearing to be normal parents-to-be. We put the Addams family to shame because Dr. Kostas is looking as though he wants to be anywhere else. His eyes keep darting to the door, measuring the distance. Planning his escape.
“This is tit for tat, is it?” I growl, my anger veering into dangerous territory. “I thought you were more mature than that.”
“I did, too. Guess I’ve been spending a little too much time in your company.”
My hand lurches for the bronze award but Dr. Kostas grabs it just before I can. He lets out a nervous chuckle, high-pitched and strained. “I understand the urge to take a swing at your spouse very well, Olivia, but that award does mean a great deal to me.”
“He’s not my spouse. He’s just the guy who knocked me up.”
Dr. Kostas smiles politely, though sweat is starting to bead on his forehead, gathering at his hairline. “Understood. I’m still going to need you to let go of the award.”
I let go of the statuette and force my hands back into my lap, gripping my knees hard enough that my knuckles go white. The pressure grounds me, keeps me from lunging at Stefan.
Unfortunately, I make the mistake of glancing at him, and he doesn’t even have the decency to hide his smile. He looks delighted. Actually delighted, like a kid on Christmas morning.
Here I am, writhing with anger, ready to retire my pacifist beliefs if it means taking a swing at his smug, handsome face. And he’s sitting there looking as though he’s having the time of his life. Like this is the most entertainment he’s had in weeks. My rage is his personal comedy show.
“You’re a fucking asshole!”
Stefan turns to Dr. Kostas, completely unbothered, his posture relaxed. “Take no notice, doctor. This is just Olivia’s version of foreplay. How do you think she got me to knock her up in the first place?”
My eyes go wide with shock. Heat surges through me, and not the good kind. Did he just say that? To the doctor?
I take a breath, trying to center myself, and remind myself that I’m up against a superior competitor. Stefan has no limits, no boundaries, and certainly no sense of shame. Which is why he can pile on, content in the knowledge that I’m growing smaller by the second. Shrinking into my chair while he expands to fill the entire room, his presence overwhelming everything else.
“I’m extremely sorry about this, Dr. Kostas,” I stutter, trying to salvage some small semblance of respectability. Some shred of dignity. My face feels like it’s on fire. “It’s completely inappropriate.”
“Don’t apologize, honey.” Stefan actually has the audacity to put his hand on my back, his palm warm through the thin fabric of my blouse. His touch sends electricity racing up my spine. “Just blame it on the hormones.”
I jerk away from his touch like I’ve been burned. “If you want to keep those fingers, I wouldn’t try that again.”
Stefan just winks at the doctor, conspiratorial. Man-to-man. “This is what happens when you get in bed with a wildcat.”
I shove my chair back, the legs scraping against the floor with a harsh screech, and get to my feet. “How about we get this examination over with?” My voice is shrill and unrecognizable even to me, pitched too high, vibrating with fury.
Dr. Kostas clears his throat, wiping the amused smile off his face as he joins me at the examination table. He pats the padded surface twice. “Right. Let’s get this show on the road.”
