Page 86 of Under His Control
I slam the door so hard the security panel beeps in protest.
The elevator ride feels exceptionally long. The reflection staring back at me from the mirrored walls looks ready for combat—jaw tight, eyes glassy, hair a mess from rage-packing and running my hand through it. I suck a breath between my teeth.
Hold. Release. Repeat. It doesn’t help.
The doors finally slide open at the garage level. Anatoly’s Audi isn’t in its bay. He’s still off driving away his anger.
I spot my beat-up car in the corner slot—sun-faded paint, bumper sporting two “Graduate of UNLV” stickers, and a dent from Chris backing into a light pole. People tease me about keeping it, but tonight, the sight feels like a hug from my old life.
As I pull onto the Strip, neon lights buzz overhead. One of the perks of Vegas is that no one is paying attention tothe car stopped next to them at a stoplight—they’re too busy photographing the Eiffel Tower replica to notice.
As I arrive at my apartment complex, the familiar smell of hot stucco and chlorine hits. I climb the three flights, unlock the door, and step inside.
The moment the door shuts, the fight drains from limbs. My hands shake as I set the bag down, then fish my phone out.
Three missed calls from Anatoly. Two texts.
Where are you?
Come home. We can talk.
I don’t answer right away. I need air. Space. Sanity. I sigh, dropping my phone onto the couch and looking around.
The familiarity wraps around me like a warm hug. The air smells like lavender dryer sheets, the couch still has the throw blanket slung in the corner, the kitchen is tidy and organized.
It’s my home.
I let myself sink into the couch cushions. My body’s buzzing with adrenaline, hurt, and confusion, and my limbs feel heavy. Numb.
God, I’m tired.
Part of me—some silly, fragile part—hoped all of this would bring me closer to Chris. That he’d see how far I was willing to go for him. That maybe we could be siblings again, not enemies wearing familiar faces.
But that hope's gone. Burned up in the flames of his bitterness. The look on his face when I slapped him, the venom in hisvoice when he called me Anatoly’s whore, the way he threw my infertility in my face like it was ammo he’d been saving for just the right moment are all signals that I’ve lost him.
He resents me. He always has. He’s just never said it out loud before.
I pull my bag onto my lap and slip out the sonogram photo.
I trace the tiny outline with my thumb, my throat tightening. I still can’t wrap my head around it.
I wasn’t supposed to be able to get pregnant. I didn’t even dare hope for it. After years of doctors, scans, and quiet conversations that always ended with a sentence starting with “unfortunately,” I buried that dream so deep it stopped hurting.
Until now.
Now, it’s all I can think about.
This little miracle that somehow, against all odds, decided to exist inside me.
I want this. Fiercely. Not just the baby, but the whole thing. Sleepless nights. Giggles. Goldfish crackers crushed in car seats. I want the chaos, the love, and the terrifying responsibility of raising a child Anatoly and I created.
I rest the photo gently against my chest and close my eyes.
Just for a minute.
Just to stop spinning.
Then, I sleep.
