Nine Months to Bear By Nicole Fox - 2

2

Even at first glance, I recognize him immediately.

Stefan Safonov.

I’ve never seen the Russian billionaire in person before, but when he does show his face in public, it makes headlines in both the financial and the gossip sections.

The financial part makes sense. His net worth makes Elon Musk look like Oliver Twist.

I’m starting to understand why the gossip section is so keen on him, though. He looks like he was born in his tuxedo. It practically melts around the hard, broad lines of his body. His smile is a scalpel, dazzling and lethal. Even in a room full of wealth, Stefan Safonov radiates a different kind of power.

When it comes to eye-catching clients, he would be the dream. My white whale.

Too bad I’m stuck in this whiskey-soaked disaster instead.

“You were about to apologize to the lady, weren’t you?” Stefan’s question isn’t really a question.

Frederick’s grip loosens on my wrist. “This isn’t your business, pal.”

Stefan tilts his head like no one has ever spoken back to him before. I wouldn’t doubt if that were the case. “ Everything is my business.”

Frederick shifts behind me, treating me like a human shield. “Oh, screw you, Safonov. You don’t own⁠—”

There’s a flash and Frederick’s hand is gone from around my wrist, and he’s whimpering. It takes me a second to realize that’s because his fingers are being crushed in Stefan’s huge hand. I can practically hear the bones grinding together as Stefan squeezes.

“Right now, you are being loud, rude to a lady, and—” He plucks the whiskey from Frederick’s other hand and gives it a derisive sniff. “—drunk on bottom-shelf liquor. I can’t decide which offends me more. I will say this once and once only: Walk away. Or things will get worse for you, very quickly.”

Whatever Frederick wanted to say, it’s gone now. As soon as Stefan lets go of his hand, he retreats, clutching his arm to his chest and muttering curses into his stained lapel as he disappears into the crowd.

I exhale shakily. My heart is pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Or get closer to Stefan. I can’t decide what terrifies me more.

My first instinct is to drop to my knees and thank him for saving me, then maybe ask him to keep up the hero act and slide me a blank check.

But my second instinct—the one I decide to listen to—is to stand my ground. I may not know Stefan, but I know men like him—and men like him feed on fear. If I show him how desperate I am, he’ll eat me alive and leave no crumbs.

So I stand.

I clench.

But I do not smile.

“Thanks, but I had it handled.” I hate the slight tremor in my voice, but I pretend I don’t hear it.

“Is that so?” Stefan’s gaze flicks to my trembling hands. “Frederick is a vengeful son of a bitch, and you were barely fighting back. That’s a dangerous way to live in this world, Dr. Aster.”

My breath hitches on two key words: my name. “You know who I am?”

“I make it my business to know things.” He plucks a champagne flute from a passing tray and hands it to me. The crystal catches the light, throwing rainbows across his angular face. “Especially beautiful women who stalk gala guests with business cards in their purses and murder in their eyes.”

“I think it’s called ‘networking.’”

Stefan laughs cruelly. “You’ve spoken to seven donors tonight. Two laughed. One called you naïve. And four said ‘maybe’ while staring at your tits.” His smirk widens at my glare. “Your ‘networking’ needs some improvement.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. So I fall back on the same ol’ reliable: bare my teeth and batten the hatches. “And you’re just… what? A billionaire with a savior complex?”

“Savior? Not even close. But I specialize in distressed investments. And I know an opportunity when I see one.” His eyes glint. “Come with me. I’ll get you a drink that doesn’t taste like battery acid.”

Isn’t this what I asked for? What I fell to my knees and literally prayed for?

So why do I hesitate?

I’ve watched my mother navigate hospital politics for decades. I’ve been on the chopping block of her impossible standards since I was old enough to hold my head upright. And just like I saw how she never did anything without a reason, every instinct is warning me right now that Stefan Safonov doesn’t do anything without a price. He makes investments, and investments are meant to do one thing: yield returns.

The question I should be asking is, What is this going to cost me?

But here’s a better question: What choice do I have? My clinic is bleeding out. If not Stefan Safonov, then who?

I lift my chin. “One drink. And if you mention my tits, I’ll test how flammable that suit is.”

Stefan laughs, rich and surprised, as he leads me toward the balcony. “Careful, little fox. I like fire.”