Page 26 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

“A bug that lasts two weeks?” She steps closer, her expression shifting from casual concern to genuine worry. “When’s the last time you saw a doctor?”

I dry my face with paper towels, avoiding her stare. “I don’t need a doctor. I need to get back to work.”

“Maya can cover your tables.” She takes the paper towels from my hands and forces me to look at her. “Sabrina, you’re scaring me. You disappear for four days, come back looking like you’ve seen a ghost, and now you’re sick every night. What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on. I’m fine.”

“Stop saying you’re fine when you’re clearly not.” Her voice carries the sharp edge she gets when she’s about to dig in her heels. “You’re making an appointment tomorrow, and I’m driving you.”

“Jessie—”

“No arguments. Tomorrow morning, first thing.”

I want to protest and insist I don’t need medical attention for what amounts to a stomach bug, but the truth is, I’ve been sick for exactly two weeks, and I’ve missed my last two periods. I’m sometimes irregular—stress and irregular sleep schedules will do that—but not like this.

Not when I can pinpoint exactly when everything changed.

One night with Nikandr. One perfect, terrible night that I’ve replayed in my mind a thousand times since I’ve been home. One night when we used protection but protection isn’t foolproof, and sometimes, the universe has a sense of humor that borders on cruel. “Fine,” I say because arguing will only make her more suspicious. “I’ll make an appointment.”

The next morning, Jessie drives me to a walk-in clinic across town that takes patients without insurance questions and doesn’t require appointments weeks in advance. The waiting room smells like disinfectant, and I sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair trying to convince myself I’m overreacting.

The nurse calls my name after twenty minutes that feel like hours. She’s young, maybe my age, with kind eyes and a gentle voice that immediately puts me at ease. “What brings you in today?”

I explain the nausea, the exhaustion, and the way food tastes different than it used to. I don’t mention the missed periods because saying it out loud will make it real, and I’m not ready for real yet.

She asks routine questions about my medical history, my lifestyle, my symptoms, and then she suggests what I’ve been dreading since Jessie forced me to make this appointment. “I’d like to run a pregnancy test, just to rule it out.”

I nod because refusing would be suspicious and because I need to know for certain even though my body has already given me the answer. “Of course.”

The test itself takes seconds. The waiting takes fifteen minutes that stretch into a lifetime. I sit on the examination table in a paper gown, staring at the motivational posters on the walls and trying not to think about what the results might mean.

When the nurse practitioner returns, she’s carrying a chart and wearing the kind of carefully neutral expression that medical professionals perfect for delivering life-altering news. “The test is positive,” she says gently. “You’re pregnant.”

The words stun me. I can’t breathe. My vision blurs around the edges, and I clutch the edge of the examination table to keep from falling. Suspecting it and having it confirmed are two different things. Suddenly, it’s real in a way that makes my chest tight with panic and something that might be wonder. “How far along?” My voice comes out as barely more than a whisper.

She checks the chart. “Based on your last menstrual period, approximately twelve weeks.”

I frown. “That can’t be right. It was exactly ten weeks ago.”

She nods. “We go based on your last period, so that tacks on two weeks.”

I nod, understanding now how they calculate me to be twelve weeks though it’s only been ten weeks since I left the safehouse, walking away from Nikandr and trying to pretend what happened between us was just a mistake with which I could learn to live.

“Are you okay?” The nurse practitioner leans forward, concern etching her features. “Do you need a minute?”

I nod frantically, not trusting my voice. She gives me privacy to process and let the reality of my situation sink in. Twelve weeks pregnant with the child of a man whose last name I don’t know, whose phone number I don’t have, and whose world is so far removed from mine that it might as well be another planet.

The same man who made it very clear I don’t belong in his life.

When I finally compose myself enough to rejoin the world, the nurse practitioner goes over my options with the kind of professional compassion that suggests she’s had this conversation many times before, including prenatal vitamins, dietary changes, follow-up appointments. It’s the standard protocol for women who plan to continue their pregnancies.

She also mentions other options, speaking delicately about termination procedures and counseling services, and I’m shaking my head before she finishes the sentence. “No. I’m keeping it.” The decision comes out of me fully formed, like it was waiting just beneath the surface for someone to ask the right question. This child is mine, created in a moment of connection that was more real than anything I’ve ever experienced, even if the circumstances were impossible.

This child is mine, and I’m keeping it.

Jessie is waiting in the lobby when I emerge, and one look at my face tells her everything she needs to know. “Oh, honey.” She stands and pulls me into a hug that almost breaks my carefully constructed composure. “Are you okay?”

“I’m pregnant.” The words sound weird aloud, both foreign and familiar at the same time.

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