Page 111 of Scarlet Thorns
“Not particularly.” I settle into the examination chair, trying to push thoughts of Stanley and sabotaged cars to the back of my mind. “I’ve been having some… stomach issues. Nausea, mostly. Three mornings in a row now.”
His expression shifts subtly— not concern, exactly, but heightened attention. “I see. And when was your last menstrual period?”
The question catches me off guard. I have to think, counting back through weeks that feel like months. Between thecontract signing, the constant physical encounters with Osip, and the stress of my new life, my body’s rhythms have become background noise.
“About… five weeks ago? Maybe six?” The realization hits me as I say it. “But that’s not unusual for me. The endometriosis makes everything irregular.”
Dr. Varga nods, making notes in his tablet. “Of course. But given the circumstances of your… arrangement… I think we should run a few tests. Just to be thorough.”
The blood draw is routine, professional. Dr. Varga chatters pleasantly about the weather, about Budapest’s beautiful autumn, about anything except what we’re both thinking. I stare at the ceiling and try not to wonder if the man in the café was really Stanley or just a stranger who happened to share his particular brand of arrogant confidence.
“I’ll have results in just a few minutes,” Dr. Varga says, pressing a cotton ball to the needle site. “Modern technology is quite remarkable.”
Those few minutes stretch like hours. I sit in the examination room, listening to the muffled sounds of the clinic beyond the door, trying to prepare myself for whatever news is coming. More medication for my endometriosis. A different approach to managing the nausea. Maybe a recommendation for stress management, given everything that’s happened today.
When Dr. Varga returns, his expression is carefully neutral— the practiced face of someone who’s delivered shocking news before.
“Well, Ilona,” he says, settling into his chair with deliberate calm. “I have your results.”
Something in his tone makes my heart skip. “And?”
“You’re pregnant. Almost four weeks along.”
The world stops.
Actually stops, like someone hit a cosmic pause button and everything— my heartbeat, my breathing, the distant hum of traffic outside— freezes in place.
“Pregnant?” The word feels foreign in my mouth, impossible. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. Your hormone levels are consistent with early pregnancy, and given the timing…” He smiles, the professional mask slipping to reveal genuine warmth. “Congratulations. Everything looks perfectly healthy.”
Pregnant.
I’m pregnant.
The words echo in my head, bouncing around like pinballs, refusing to settle into anything resembling coherent thought. This is what we wanted— what the contract was for, what all the planning and medical examinations and careful timing was meant to achieve.
But somehow, I never really believed it would happen. Not to me. Not to someone whose body has spent years fighting against conception, whose health issues have made pregnancy feel like a distant impossibility.
“Ilona? Are you alright?”
Dr. Varga’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. I realize I’m crying— silent tears streaming down my cheeks without any conscious decision to cry.
“I’m…” I wipe my face with trembling hands. “I’m fine. Just… overwhelmed.”
“That’s perfectly normal. This is life-changing news.”
Life-changing.
He has no idea.
I stumble through the rest of the consultation on autopilot. Dr. Varga prescribes prenatal vitamins, schedules follow-up appointments, gives me pamphlets about early pregnancy care that I clutch tightly. He talks about nutrition and exercise andavoiding alcohol, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of my thoughts.
“The nausea should improve in a few weeks,” he says as I prepare to leave. “Morning sickness is quite common, especially in the first trimester. It’s actually a good sign— indicates healthy hormone levels.”
Morning sickness. The phrase takes on new meaning now. Not a symptom of stress or endometriosis or guilt, but evidence of the tiny life growing inside me.
A baby.
