Page 101 of Velvet Chains
“Fuck you, Victor,” I whisper, my voice broken and raw. “Fuck you for even thinking that of me.”
I grab my purse, my vision blurred with tears. I need to get out of here, need to be anywhere but in this room with him.
“Kiska, wait,” Victor tries, but I’m already pushing past him, blindly heading for the door.
I yank it open, nearly colliding with Rob, who’s standing there with a tray of appetizers. He looks startled, his eyes darting between me and Victor.
“Mrs. Morozov, are you…?”
“I’m fine,” I choke out, brushing past him. “I just… I need some air.”
I don’t look back. I can’t. If I do, I might just break down completely.
I hurry through the restaurant, ignoring the curious stares and whispers. All I can think about is getting away, putting as much distance as possible between me and the man who just shattered my heart.
The man who’s supposed to be my husband. The father of my child.
But as I burst out into the chilly afternoon air, gulping in desperate breaths, I realize the painful truth.
I don’t know Victor at all. And maybe I never did.
The thought makes me want to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all. But all I can do is wrap my arms around myself, hugging my middle where our baby grows.
A baby he doesn’t even believe is his.
The tears come then, hot and fast and unstoppable. I let them fall, let them burn trails down my cheeks.
Because right now, in this moment, it’s all I have left.
The crisp winter air hits me like a slap as I stumble out of the restaurant, my thin cardigan doing little to ward off the chill. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold in the sobs that threaten to tear me apart.
My heels tap against the sidewalk, a sharp, staccato beat that echoes the pounding of my heart. I feel like a fraud, a pretender in designer clothes and expensive shoes. They’re not me, not really. Just part of the act I’ve been playing.
But the act is over now. The curtain has fallen, and all that’s left is the ugly truth.
I’m pregnant. And the father of my child, the man I’m supposed to be married to, thinks I’m nothing more than a gold-digging whore.
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, harsh and bitter. It’s funny, in a twisted sort of way. I’ve spent so long trying to escape my past, to build a better life for myself. And now, here I am, right back where I started.
Alone. Ashamed. And so, so angry.
The tears are flowing. I let them fall, let them mingle with the mascara streaming down my cheeks. I must look like a fucking mess, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I just keep walking, my feet carrying me down the street, past the posh storefronts and the well-dressed people with their designer dogs. They all seem so perfect, so put together. Like they have their lives all figured out.
Not like me. Not like the knocked-up fool in the too-tight jeans and the killer heels.
Speaking of which, my feet are screaming in protest. I stumble to a nearby bench, collapsing onto the hard metal with a graceless thud.
And then, as if to add insult to injury, my stomach lets out a loud, embarrassing gurgle.
“Great,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my belly. “Just what I need. A surprise baby, a broken heart, and a stomach that’s trying to eat itself.”
As if in response, my tummy growls louder.
“I know, kid,” I whisper, my voice choked with tears. “I’m hungry too. But Mommy’s a little busy having a breakdown right now, so you’re just going to have to wait.”
My phone starts ringing then, a tinny, insistent sound that grates on my last nerve. I fish it out of my purse, glancing at the screen.
