Page 69 of Cinderella and the Daddy
The doctor is a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and gentle hands. She gives me the official verdict I already knew was coming.
"Congratulations," she says, pulling off her gloves. "You're approximately twelve weeks along. Everything looks healthy and normal."
Twelve weeks. Three months. A quarter of the way through creating an entire human being while navigating kidnapping, surveillance, and whatever game Anna's been playing with my life.
"The baby is healthy?" I ask because I need to hear it again.
"Yep. You're doing everything right." She hands me a small envelope. “I want you to start taking some prenatal vitamins. I’m giving you a few samples. We’ll schedule an ultrasound to happen around twenty weeks."
I take the paperwork with trembling hands. Proof. Evidence. The physical reality of what's growing inside me.
"Thank you," I manage.
"I'd like to see you again in four weeks for your next checkup. The receptionist can schedule that for you on your way out."
I nod and get dressed quickly, my mind already racing ahead to the logistics of follow-up appointments and how to explain extended absences to Luka.
I leave the clinic and peek outside. Grigori isn’t there.
Weird.
Maybe now that I’ve agreed to stay with Luka of my own free will, I’m not going to be so heavily guarded.
I’m only a couple of blocks from my old apartment. I have no idea if it’s even mine anymore. Did Charles keep up on the rent?
Guess I’m about to find out.
I find the spare key I hid in the potted plant at the end of the hallway.
I knock first, just in case someone else has moved in. When no one answers, I slide the key in and push open the door.
My apartment is like a time capsule. Everything exactly as I left it. The landlord should have rented it out by now.
The fact that he hasn't tells me Charles kept up on the rent. I don’t question why that is.
I move through the small space carefully, looking for signs that someone has been here. But the dust patterns look undisturbed, and my personal belongings are exactly where I left them.
I drop the prenatal samples and paperwork on the table, then immediately second-guess myself. What if someone comes here? What if Luka has people watching this place?
Paranoid. I'm becoming paranoid like him.
But paranoid people live longer in this world, so I stuff the evidence into my bag instead.
I move through the apartment methodically, checking window locks, looking for signs of entry, and listening for sounds in the hallway..
Old habits die hard. Clear the space before you settle. Know your exits. Trust nothing.
In my bedroom closet, behind the stack of yellowed concert tees I could never throw away, I find the duffel bag. Black, nondescript, and bought with cash at a military surplus store. Inside: two changes of clothes, five hundred dollars in small bills, a prepaid phone, basic toiletries, and a laminated photo of my mother.
The emergency kit of someone who learned young that safety is temporary, that love can turn to abandonment in a heartbeat. I should feel pathetic that I still keep this. Instead, I feel smart.
I add fresh clothes, updating the kit with muscle memory. Underwear, jeans, shirts. My hands shake slightly as I realize I'm packing for two now. How do you prepare an escape bag when you're carrying someone else's whole world inside you?
I add some clothes and a few personal items that somehow survived my abrupt departure from this life.
But as I pack, nausea hits like a freight train.
I barely make it to the bathroom before my stomach empties itself violently, leaving me kneeling on the cold tile floor, shaking and exhausted. Morning sickness, the doctor called it, though it seems to strike at any hour without warning.
