Cruel Paradise - A Mafia Romance Chapter 89

The nurse chimes in, “If you are, the ultrasound will help us determine if the baby is alright. If there’s even a baby in the first place.” She steps forward holding a thin metallic probe. “Ma’am, the best way to get the clearest view of your uterus at this stage would be transvaginally. With your permission, I’ll insert this and begin scanning.” She holds up the probe. “You’ll feel mild discomfort at first.”

Emma just nods but her forehead vein is throbbing hard.

“Don’t worry,” I whisper, drawing her eyes to me. “It’ll be over soon.”

She keeps her eyes on me, flinching and sucking in a sharp breath when the nurse inserts the probe. I hold my breath as the nurse squints at the monitor with an eagle eye. A part of me wonders if this is how Emma and I learn we’re going to be parents. It’s the first time my thoughts on fatherhood haven’t centered around the Oryolov Bratva, around heirs and successors and doing my duty.

It’s the first time I’ve thought simply, I want this for this. For her. For us.

“Hmm.”

Emma’s breath catches in her chest. “Was that a good ‘hmm’ or a bad ‘hmm’?”

The nurse flushes and she clears her throat self-consciously. “There seems to be an anomaly on the ultrasound. This will need a doctor’s expertise. I’ll be right back.”

She looks at me helplessly. “She didn’t say if it was a good ‘hmm’ or a bad ‘hmm.’”

“We’ll deal with it—whatever it was—together.”

I want to be her rock now, because God knows she needs that. But my words fall on deaf ears. She’s already chewing on the inside of her cheek and, no matter how hard I grip her hand, the vein in her forehead doesn’t stop thudding.

When the doctor walks in a few minutes later, Emma uses my arm to tow herself upright.

“How are we doing today?” the gray-haired doctor asks with the kind of false cheery tone that inspires nothing but doubt.

When no one answers him, he turns his attention to the ultrasound. Emma doesn’t give him long. “Wwas I pregnant, doctor?” she stammers. “Did I lose the baby?”

The doctor turns to her with pursed lips and a carefully constructed mask of professional sympathy. “Ms. Carson, I’m… I’m afraid there was no baby to lose.”

“Oh.” Her face drops instantly.

“I understand you’ve been trying. The thing is… it might be difficult for you to get pregnant at all.”

This time, it’s my face that drops. “What do you mean?” I bark. “Explain.”

“The ultrasound shows a blocked fallopian tube.”

Emma sucks in a breath. “You mean… I can’t get pregnant?”

“No, no,” he answers quickly, fidgeting with the stethoscope around his neck. “It’s not impossible. It’s just… not going to be easy. The odds are not in your favor.”

I notice the tear running down her cheek. I understand her sadness; I understand her disappointment.

What I don’t understand is mine.

Up until a few months ago, fatherhood was a curse I did my damndest to avoid. Until just a few nights ago, it was a duty I wanted to run from.

When did it become something I actually want?

64

EMMA

When I’m finally discharged from the hospital, Ruslan insists on taking me back to the penthouse.

It feels weird coming here when sex is off the table. Almost as though it’s a waste of the apartment. Somehow, it all feels like a waste now.

Does all that incredible sex we’ve had mean nothing if nothing comes out of it?

Does he regret choosing me?

I’m aware that I’m not thinking rationally. My head hurts. My ankle hurts. My heart hurts. Everything hurts. But I can’t pull myself out of the downward spiral.

I sit at the edge of his bed, staring out at the view, trying to imagine what my life will look like if I never get to carry a baby of my own, never raise a child of my own. Is this ache in my chest permanent? Will it ease with time or will I have to learn to live with it?

“Emma.”

I accept the glass of water Ruslan’s offering me but I don’t take a sip despite how parched I am. It feels like every inch of motion requires energy I just don’t have. And then, beneath that, it feels like I don’t deserve the water, or his affection, or anything but this thudding, pounding, grinding ache in my chest.

He takes the glass off my hands but just when I think he’s about to set it down, he brings it to my lips instead. All I do is swallow; he does the rest. When I’ve finished every last drop, he unzips my dress and pulls it off me. He strips off my underwear, too.

I’m struck by how different this experience is. Ruslan has undressed me a hundred times in the past. But this time is different. He’s gentle. He takes it slow. He doesn’t touch me except for when he needs to. The half-crazed look of passion and hunger that I’m used to seeing in his eyes is gone. Instead, his eyebrows pull together, his lips pursed down as if he’s concentrating. I can only guess at what he’s feeling.

He has to be disappointed, too, right? He was counting on me to give him an heir.

But instead, he got stuck with the dud woman and her dud fallopian tube.

I bet he’s regretting that new contract now.

Then again, Ruslan Oryolov always thinks ahead. He probably has a hidden clause in our contract for just such a circumstance. In the event that Party B (henceforth known as “The Dud”) is unable to fulfill her contractually obligated duties as set forth in the preceding sections, Party A (henceforth known as “The Boss”) will kick The Dud to the curb and replace her with a woman who possesses a functioning fallopian tube (and no gag reflex).

He pulls the duvet over my naked body and suddenly, I’m sobbing all over his Egyptian cotton sheets.

As if he doesn’t already have enough reasons to get rid of me.

“Emma…”

A moment later, his cool chest hits my back and his arms engulf me. The coldness subsides in seconds and I’m swimming in his oaky scent and his warmth. “Y-you don’t have to do this,” I whimper.

“Sleep now,” is all he whispers to me. “Just sleep.”

His voice betrays nothing. I can’t see his face and, even if I could, I’m scared of what I might see there. Yes, he’s spent this whole ordeal by my side, but guilt doesn’t necessarily equal affection. And kindness doesn’t equal hope.

“Ruslan—” “Shh.”

His voice is gentle. It’s almost enough to make me believe that he’s here because he cares about me. But I signed a contract that said that that would never happen. I don’t want to be that girl. The girl who dared to hope for more even after she was explicitly told that more was not an option.

“Sleep now. In the morning, I’ll take you back.”

Is he stamping “Return to Sender” on my forehead? Are those words the kiss of death? I want to ask but I’m swallowed up in a cocktail of drugs, fatigue, and failure.

Might as well succumb to sleep now.

I’ll still be a dud tomorrow.