Nine Months to Bear By Nicole Fox - 12

12

I watch the footage of Olivia on my tablet as she rearranges the white orchids in her office window for the sixth time today. It’s the same fucking routine. The same obsessive attention to detail. One stem falls a millimeter out of place, and she has to fix the entire arrangement.

A half-remembered dream from last night comes back to me. It’s a haze of barely-there thoughts. Glimpses of Olivia against the wall in her office, her body warm and soft against mine as I pinned her beneath me…

I woke up hard as a rock with her name on my tongue.

The reason she’s in my head is because she’s making me work for it. At least, that’s what I told myself. She’s the solution to all of my problems, but I’m going to have to fucking earn it for the first time in too long.

That’s what’s got me stopped up. Frustrated in a way I’ve never been before. I released the tension by pulling up her hijacked security feed in the middle of the night.

Tried to, at least. But even now, watching her, I’m still wired.

I glance across the table. Taras is hunched over spreadsheets, too busy orchestrating the delicate dance of moving money between accounts to stay ahead of the federal investigation. He doesn’t even notice my personal drama.

For months, the IRS and FBI have been circling Safonov Holdings, searching for proof of money laundering, racketeering, human trafficking—anything to bring down the Bratva and its pakhan along with it.

I should be doing the same thing as Taras, focusing on the numbers in front of me—shell companies, offshore accounts, the paper trail we’ve carefully constructed to look legitimate.

Instead, I’m watching Olivia straighten those fucking flowers like, if she gets them perfect enough, her life won’t continue falling apart.

“The feds seized another property in Back Bay yesterday,” Taras remarks, not looking up from his laptop. “That makes three this month. They’re claiming it was purchased with laundered money from the club.” He slides a document across the black desk and finally notices the security feed up on my tablet. “Oh, pardon me. I wouldn’t want millions in potentially traceable funds to interrupt your regularly scheduled creeping.”

I don’t look up. “Every time she gets bad news, she goes straight to those orchids.”

On screen, Olivia’s face tightens as she reads an email. Her fingers curl into a fist before she stands and walks directly to the flowers. Back straight. Movements controlled.

“For fuck’s sake, man.” Taras doesn’t bother hiding his amusement. “At least pretend to look at the numbers while you stalk her. I’m feeling neglected.”

“It’s research,” I growl. But that lie is starting to sound like bullshit, even to me.

“Ah, yes, of course.” Taras leans back, grinning. “Very thorough ‘research.’ Tell me, what’s the ROI on watching her fix her hair seventeen times this morning?”

“Any word on that missing employee?” I ask, changing the subject.

Taras’s smile fades. “Nothing. He’s been M.I.A. for two weeks now.”

“Keep looking. He’s either dead or working for the feds. And if it’s the latter, we’ll make sure he’s dead soon enough.”

“Or working for Iakov,” Taras says quietly, presenting his favorite of the theories.

The name lingers between us. Iakov Zakharov.

I push away from my desk, tension coiling in my shoulders. Iakov’s been a thorn in my side since I took control of the Bratva five years ago. After my father’s death when I was only a teenager, my uncle Vasily took on the mantle of pakhan . It was supposed to be temporary, only until I was of age… then he married my mother and tried to make himself legitimate.

Iakov’s father, Mikhail, was my uncle’s right hand, which made him an enemy of mine. When I orchestrated my uncle’s downfall, Mikhail lost everything. Rather than face the shame, he put a bullet in his own brain.

Now, his son wants revenge. But instead of challenging me like a man, Iakov is hiding in the shadows. Planting moles, talking to the feds, looking for ways to oust me.

“How much does he know about Aster Fertility Solutions?” I ask. My eyes drift back to the surveillance feed where Olivia is now typing furiously at her computer.

“Nothing concrete yet.” Taras follows my gaze and sighs. “But are you sure this is the right play? There are other legitimate businesses we could acquire that don’t come with so many… complications.”

By complications, he means her . The doctor with perfect posture and too much spice. The woman who stood in my own home and called me an asshole to my face.

“AFS is perfect,” I argue. “Small enough to fly under the radar but established enough to be credible. Government licenses. Medical infrastructure. A squeaky-clean founder with family connections to half the hospital boards in the city.”

“A founder who is also drowning in debt and hates your guts,” Taras points out.

“I can pay her debts, and she’ll come around.” I zoom in on her face. There are shadows under her eyes that weren’t there yesterday. “She’s losing clients weekly. Her lawyer, Jimmy, tells me they’re one bad quarter away from bankruptcy.”

Taras raises an eyebrow. “You have her lawyer on payroll now?”

“Not officially. But he’s amenable to reason, unlike his stubborn cousin.” I tap the screen where Olivia is now staring at her quarterly projections. I can practically see the negative numbers burning in her eyes. “He just needed some help with his gambling debts.”

“Jesus, Stefan.” Taras shakes his head. “This whole plan is elaborate, even for you. We could just buy the place outright.”

“And have the feds crawling all over the transaction within hours?” I scoff. “No. Olivia needs to come to me. She needs to give it to me.” My cock twitches again, misinterpreting my meaning. I clear my throat. “She’ll hand everything over willingly, and by the time anyone connects the dots, it’ll be too late to trace.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Taras says dryly. “But what happens to the doctor after you get what you want?”

I shoot him a warning look.

But before I can answer, my secretary’s voice comes through the intercom. “Visitor for you, Mr. Safonov. A Dr. Aster…?”

My pulse spikes even as I turn to Taras, a smug eyebrow arched. “Right on schedule.”

Taras stands and starts gathering his papers. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Your prey approaches. Try not to look too pleased with yourself.”

“Make sure you get those accounts transferred before close of business,” I tell him as he heads for the door. “And put additional surveillance on the two other properties in Back Bay. If Iakov makes a move there, I want to know immediately.”

Taras nods and disappears just as the door opens again. Olivia marches in like she’s storming a castle, arms laden with folders. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun that highlights the sharp angles of her face. She’s wearing a charcoal suit that somehow manages to look both professional and fucking hot—the skirt just tight enough to show off the curve of her ass when she turns.

“Mr. Safonov.” She’s got her med school voice on, the one to impress professors, to convey, I’m on top of my shit, I assure you. “I hope you’re prepared to be reasonable today.”

I lean back in my chair, enjoying the view. “I’m always reasonable, Dr. Aster. Please, have a seat.”

She ignores the chair, instead spreading dozens of folders across my desk, taking the time to straighten each and every one until they are perfectly aligned. When she leans over them, her shoulder bumps mine.

She smells like those damn orchids.

“I’ve compiled profiles of our top surrogacy candidates,” she begins. “All have been fully vetted, medically screened, and will be psychologically evaluated upon your selection.”

This is a far cry from the last time I spoke to her. Then again, I knew she’d buckle. I knew she’d drop to her knees and give me exactly what I⁠—

I clear my throat again, shifting in my chair as I pretend to consider each file she opens. But I keep looking at her from the corner of my eye. This close, I can see the faint freckles across her nose that she tries to hide with makeup. The scar on the underside of her chin. I want to press my mouth to it.

“First candidate,” she begins, tapping a photo of a young blonde woman. “Twenty-eight, excellent fertility markers, regular menstrual cycle, no complications in her previous pregnancy.”

I flip through the medical charts. “Says here there’s a family history of addiction.”

“Third cousin, twice removed,” Olivia counters. “Statistically irrelevant for genetic predisposition.”

I close the file. “No. Next.”

A flash of frustration crosses her face before she opens another folder. “Candidate two. Thirty-two, perfect health, graduated cum laude from Columbia, currently working as a⁠—”

“It says she wants a relationship with the child,” I interrupt, reading from the notes section at the bottom of the page.

“An annual update and photograph,” Olivia clarifies. “Many surrogates request⁠—”

“Absolutely not.” I push the file away. “Next.”

She takes a controlled breath, nostrils flaring. I’m getting under her skin, and we both know it. She slides over a third folder, this one thicker than the others. “Olympic athlete. IQ of 142. Looks like a supermodel.”

She shoves the woman’s bikini-clad photo in my face.

I glance at the photo of a stunning brunette, then at Olivia’s tight expression. Is that jealousy? Interesting.

“Wouldn’t even consider it.”

“Why the hell not?!” The question bursts out of her, patience clearly fraying. “She meets every one of your impossible criteria!”

She’s right. And yet…

“Not quite.” I lean back, steeple my fingers, and look at her. “Next.”

“There is no ‘next’!” Olivia slams her palm on the desk, sending a pencil rolling toward the edge. I catch it before it falls and tuck it back precisely where it belongs. “You’ve rejected every qualified candidate I’ve presented. What exactly are you looking for?”

I stand slowly. She doesn’t back down. Just tilts her chin up to maintain eye contact.

Defiant to the end. It makes me want to see her on her knees.

No—it makes me want to see her swollen with my child, claimed by me from the inside out.

“I know exactly what I want.” I let her see it in my eyes. The hunger. The inevitability. “Do you?”

Her eyes widen as understanding dawns. “You can’t be serious.”

“You’re the one who said this idea goes against what your clinic stands for. You don’t want to pimp out someone else’s uterus, so…”

I let her fill in the blanks. It would work perfectly for me. She gets pregnant with my child, which gives us a family connection. Then I use that to integrate myself into her business, pulling it back from the brink of ruin.

If I become the CEO in the process, who would even notice?

Based on the flush in her cheeks, the way I can see her pulse thrumming in her throat, she’s filling in the blanks just fine.

“That’s—that’s completely ridiculous.” She steps back, abandoning her folders. “I’m a doctor. A business owner. Not a⁠—”

I raise an eyebrow. “Not a suitable genetic match? Your file suggests otherwise. Perfect health. Advanced degree. No family history of congenital disorders.”

“ My file?” She swallows hard. “You have a file on me?”

Maybe I’ve said too much. But then again, maybe that’s not a bad thing. Let her see a fraction of what I’m capable of. Let her understand who she’s dealing with.

Let her remember who the fuck I am.

“Everything is my business, Dr. Aster. Absolutely everything.”

“I— You— What is even happening?”

“You need the money. I need discretion and genetic quality. It’s a perfect solution.”

She laughs, a sharp, bitter sound. “You may get to walk around and use everyone else in this world for your sick purposes, but not me. I’m not your incubator.”

“I’d pay you triple your standard fee.” I step closer. She doesn’t move, but I can feel her itching to run… or perhaps to slide closer. The line between fear and desire is as thin as it gets. One tiny push or pull and she could tumble in either direction. “And fund your clinic for the next five years. No strings attached.”

Her eyes narrow. “There are always strings with men like you.”

I smile. “And what kind of man am I?”

“A dangerous one.” She says it without hesitation. Like she’s been waiting for the opportunity to throw that word in my face.

But if she thinks it’ll scare me, she thinks wrong. I know exactly what I am. I’ve known it since the day I saw the maids cleaning Mikhail’s bloodstains out of his office carpet.

Olivia snatches the papers back and stuffs them into her messenger bag. A piece of hair has escaped her tight bun. I can almost feel it wrapped around my fist.

“I know exactly what I want,” I repeat. “When you finally figure out what you want, I’ll be waiting.”

She keeps retreating, though she never takes her eyes off of mine. “I tried to be reasonable, but it looks like that was a mistake. Consider this the official close of our relationship, Mr. Safonov. Don’t call me again. Find another clinic, another doctor. I’m done.”

The door slams behind her. Her heels punch holes in the silence all the way down the hall.

Taras materializes in the doorway, eyebrows raised. “That makes, what? Three dramatic exits this week? Should we start a betting pool?”

I run my thumb over where she’d leaned against my desk. She left a smudge on the wood. Sloppy of her. My oh-so careful doctor, leaving pieces of herself behind.

“She’ll be back,” I say under my breath. “Bet on that .”