Page 4 of The Russian's Bought Bride

The waiting room almost feels too clean, and it’s the first thing I notice.

The floors shine like glass, the walls are a sterile white that almost hurts to look at, and the air smells faintly of antiseptic. It feels detached and clinical, as if this place doesn’t allow for mistakes.

Everything here feels controlled, and that thought should comfort me. Instead, it makes my stomach twist.

After all this time, I need more than just hope and comfort. I need real, tangible proof that we’re doing the right thing and that this trial is more than just a guinea pig situation.

Sitting hunched forward in one of the stiff chairs, elbows on my knees, my fingers are laced so tightly together that they’ve gone pale. There’s a clock on the wall across from me, ticking in slow, deliberate seconds that seem to echo in my mind, like a not-so-quiet reminder of how time-sensitive all of this is.

Every second matters, and each small movement of the longer hand tells me that something is happening behind those doors.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I inhale deeply through my nose to steady the spiral of thoughts threatening to pull me under.

This is a good thing…this operation will help.

I repeat those words silently, like a mantra I don’t fully believe yet, but want to more than anything.

The procedure is experimental, but that’s what we signed up for. That’s what he signed up for, even after the doctors were explicit about the potential dangers.

We both thought about it for as long as we could, but after learning that traditional options weren’t enough anymore, and his kidneys were failing faster than expected, Dad wasn’t left with much choice. Without intervention…

I swallow hard, forcing the rest of that thought away before it can finish forming.

This miracle they offered, this synthetic organ that could replace what his body can’t repair, it’s his only chance. It’s his final stab at getting better, and even if it’s selfish of me to need him to hold on a while longer, I can’t stand the thought of losing him.

Lifting my head, I stare at the double doors down the hall. They’ve been closed for hours now. Since the operation began, I haven’t received any updates or seen any movement. Just the occasional nurse passing through, offering me a polite, sympathetic smile that doesn’t tell me anything I actually need to know. It’s frustrating, and I don’t want their pity.

I just want my dad back.

My gaze drifts to my phone sitting in my lap. The screen is dark, but I know if I turn it on, I’ll see the same picture I’ve been staring at for hours now. It’s one of us from last summer, where we’re standing outside our house, his arm thrown around my shoulders as both of us squint into the sun.

He looks healthy in it and far stronger than he has been in a while. Not like the man I helped into a hospital bed this morning, or the one who looked at me with such genuine optimism.

Pain blooms in my chest all over again, and I blink rapidly to keep the emotions back.

He tried to joke earlier. Despite everything, he tried to lighten my mood, and that was so frustrating and endearingly like him.

“Hey,” he’d said as they wheeled him toward the operating room, his voice thinner than it used to be but still carrying that familiar warmth. His eyes were still warm with promise despite the undercurrent of exhaustion. “If this works, I’m finally getting that motorcycle I always wanted.”

I’d laughed, since that was all I could manage without breaking down entirely. I smiled at him even if it hurt. “You can barely handle a bicycle.”

“Details, details…” he’d said with a weak grin. “I’ll have all the time in the world to learn.”

I cling to that moment now, and to the way his eyes had still held that spark. That stubborn, ridiculously positive outlook that refuses to die even when everything else is falling apart, and even while I struggle to keep my own faith.

He believes this is going to work, so I have to believe it too.

Minutes stretch on, and my leg starts bouncing before I realize it, then I force it to still. A few seconds later, I start fidgeting again, unable to stop myself from letting some of the anxious energy out.

Despite the thoughts in the back of my mind, questioning if something isn’t right, I push them down to keep myself sane.

If there had been a complication or if something unexpected had happened, they would have come out and said something.

Silence means everything is proceeding as planned.

…Right?

A nurse walks past carrying a clipboard with sure steps, and I almost stop her instinctively. The questions are already on the tip of my tongue, but I hesitate just long enough for her to keep going.