Page 61 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

Olga stared at the door, her chest heaving. "That little bastard. Thirty-eight years old, and he still handles women the way a spoiled boy handles a tantrum—slam a door and run." She shoved my phone into my hand, getting angrier by the second. "His wife is crying, and he goes chasing another woman, telling himself he is 'finding the truth'? If he has half a brain, he'd start by asking who keeps yanking his leash."

"Olga..."

"Don't you dare cover for him." She turned on me, her eyes full of ache. "Men doing stupid shit isn't the scary part. The scary part is when they call their stupidity 'insight' and make the people who love them pay for it."

I wanted to say I hadn't covered for him, but my throat tightened. The thing I'd been crushing down through the whole fight suddenly lost its grip and surged up. I stumbled into the bathroom and threw up like I was trying to empty my entire body.

"Sweetheart." Olga followed me in, her palm landing between my shoulders. "Easy. Breathe."

She rubbed my back in steady strokes. That kind of unconditional care made my nose burn. I'd learned young how to not be a problem—find my own medicine, shut my door when I got hurt, cry it out, wash my face, come back like nothing happened. If I stayed quiet enough, nobody would call me an eyesore.

But Olga looked at me like my pain actually mattered.

"It is probably just too much stress." I turned on the faucet and avoided the mirror, avoided the pale face staring back. "I didn't sleep last night. I didn't eat breakfast."

"Stress doesn't make you puke like this." Her gray brows drew down hard. "I called the driver. We go to the hospital. Now."

"No." I grabbed her sleeve. "I just... I want to be alone for a little bit."

She studied me for a few seconds. "One hour. If you don't feel better, we go. That isn't a suggestion."

I forced a thin, shaky smile.

She helped me up and walked me back to the studio.

I stood in front of the unfinished canvas, brush tip hovering, unable to land. The gold light in the room warped in my vision. The dizziness swam. Isabella had come back, and everything would snap back into place.

And I was just the wrong stroke. Sooner or later, I'd get painted over.

Time crawled. Olga knocked twice. I kept her out with "Just a little longer." Then acid rose in my throat again. I bent over the table, palms braced, and I couldn't blame it on feelings anymore.

For the past week, the smell of coffee turned my stomach. I woke up hollow and nauseous. Even my favorite cream soup wouldn't go down. Exhaustion sat on me like a wet blanket—sometimes I'd barely sit before my eyelids dragged.

And my period. I counted again, and again. It was more than two weeks late. Mine had always been regular.

My fingertips went cold.

A guess I didn't want to give shape spread through me. I didn't tell Olga. I left the manor alone and went to the hospital.

On the way, I fed myself excuses. Insomnia. Stress. Post-fever weakness. Anything felt safer than that answer. But when my hand drifted to my lower belly on its own, a thin, fragile thread of hope pushed up through the fear.

It was flat and quiet. Nothing to feel. But what if there was a baby?

The nurse handed me a form. I paused a long time under "Emergency Contact," then finally wrote Kiryan Morozov. The ink pooled into a dark dot beside the phone number. The calls he'd rejected, his back as he left—everything rose off the page like a ghost.

If I was pregnant, should I tell him?

He'd never said he wanted kids. Even admitting I was his wife had felt like a favor he could snatch back whenever he felt like it. I was scared he'd know. I was scared he'd never know. Both fears clamped around my chest until I couldn't breathe right.

"Ma'am?" the nurse prompted.

"Sorry." I finished and handed it back.

"How long have you felt nauseous?"

"Over a week."

"Tired easily? Sensitive to smells?"