Page 116 of Twisted Addiction
She rolled my dress slightly upward and spread cool gel over my abdomen.
The wand pressed against my skin.
The screen flickered.
And then—there it was.
A small, flickering pulse. Steady. Defiant.
“The fetus is stable,” Irina murmured, her eyes on the monitor. “Heartbeat strong—one hundred forty beats per minute.” She tilted the wand slightly, zooming in. “Subchorionic hematoma still visible, but smaller. No new bleeding.”
My breath hitched. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it.
Dr. Mikhail adjusted the blood pressure cuff on my arm. It tightened with a hiss, the machine humming. “Vitals slightly elevated,” he observed. “But expected, given recent traumaand medication history.” He clipped an oximeter to my finger. “Oxygen saturation—ninety-eight percent. Good.”
Giovanni’s gaze stayed fixed on the screen, his jaw tense.
“Your lungs,” Mikhail continued, picking up a small device, “still show minor constriction. Possible asthma flare-ups. Let’s test capacity.” He handed me the spirometer. “Deep breath. Blow until it stops beeping.”
I followed his instructions, exhaling hard. The device chirped twice before flashing a green light.
“Better than we hoped,” Mikhail said, jotting notes into a tablet. “Your body is resilient, Mrs. Volkov. You’ve endured much.”
Endured.
That word sat heavy in my chest.
Giovanni stepped closer, his voice rough. “What does that mean—for the baby?”
Irina met his eyes. “It means she can carry, if she rests, avoids stress, and receives proper care. Any shock—emotional or physical—could change that.”
Her gaze flicked toward me, pointed.
I swallowed hard, forcing a steady nod. “Then I’ll rest,” I said softly. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
For the first time, Giovanni’s expression softened. “Good,” he said quietly. “Then maybe all this wasn’t for nothing.”
But as I looked at the black-and-white image on the screen—the small, fluttering heartbeat that shouldn’t have survived—I couldn’t help but wonder if this miracle would only paint a bigger target on my back.
Hope floods me so fast my chest hurts. “What about the risks?” I ask. “They told me I could die carrying this.”
Dr. Irina’s tone is matter-of-fact, not cruel. “The subchorionic hematoma and your severe asthma make this high-risk. But with aggressive, targeted management, the fetus can survive. You’ll need strict monitoring and medication.”
Dr. Mikhail taps the tablet. “We’ll give one in-office injection now to bolster the lining and reduce clot expansion. You’ll leave with a regimen: daily vaginal progesterone to support the pregnancy, a bronchodilator inhaler and spacer for asthma control, and a short course of anti-inflammatories to stabilize the hematoma. Follow every instruction exactly.”
I stare at the tiny list like it’s a map out of a burning house.
Giovanni stepped closer, his voice low but razor-sharp. “This injection... the medications you plan for her afterward—these are experimental, correct? They haven’t been approved by the World Health Organization?”
“Correct. They aren’t on the WHO list.” Dr. Irina meets him without blinking. “But our protocol shows an eighty to ninety percent success rate in similar cases. We only proceed if the potential benefit outweighs the risk.”
They produce the vial.
As Mikhail draws the syringe, Giovanni lunges. His hand clamps over Irina’s wrist with the raw, animal force of a man who has seen too much and now refuses to lose someone else.
“No,” he says hoarsely, eyes wild. “Penelope... we’re leaving. Now. I won’t let you take these untested drugs—I won’t let you risk yourself like this!”
I feel the old fury snap awake — the part of me that will not be made small again. I yank my voice into a blade. “Giovanni. Step back.”
