Nine Months to Bear By Nicole Fox - 3

3

Boston glitters below like a bed of nails. It’s cold out here, but darker, quieter. Normally, that would be a nice reprieve from the shitshow inside.

Unfortunately for me, I’m not alone.

Stefan strikes a lighter and touches it to the tip of a cigarette dangling between his perfect lips. The flame highlights sharp cheekbones and the pockets of shadow in his hollow cheeks.

“You hate these things,” he observes.

“Cigarettes?” I ask in confusion. “I guess, yeah. I swore them off after a bad ex who chain-smoked like it was his job. To be fair, since he was unemployed, it was in fact his job.”

He chuckles. “Not that.” Then he tips his head towards the double doors to clarify. “The posturing. The lies. The fucking pretense of it all.”

“Oh. Right.” I side-eye him. “Says the man who probably owns the building they’re posturing in.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” He exhales in my direction, smoke curling between us. Then his gaze flicks to my clutch, where my phone is buzzing again for the third time in two minutes. It’s the only sound out here on this isolated balcony. “She’s persistent, that mother of yours.”

My spine stiffens in alarm. How did he know it was her blowing me up? “Are you stalking me?”

“Stalking implies interest. I’m merely observing.” He taps his cigarette on the railing.

Moonlight refracts off the silver of his signet ring. The Safonov crest . If gossip is to be believed, there are dead men with that emblem embedded in their cheeks.

“Why do you let her carve her expectations into you?” he asks.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I snap. “So don’t act like you do.”

He turns, crowding my space without touching me. The heat of him seeps through my gown. It takes all the willpower I have left to keep myself from leaning into him for shelter.

“Don’t I, though? You graduated top of your class a year early. You’ve published three groundbreaking studies on ovarian rejuvenation. You opened your clinic at twenty-five… against Mommy’s wishes, too, because she wanted you to cut people open instead.”

I swallow hard. “Reading my Wikipedia page isn’t knowing me.”

His lips quirk. It’s not quite a smile. “You’re right—because Wikipedia doesn’t mention how you’re drowning in debt. Too proud to beg and too stubborn to quit. Tell me I’m wrong.”

I want to recoil. Want to scream. Instead, I meet his stare, refusing to flinch under the weight of his way-too-accurate assessment. “And what makes my financial situation your business, Mr. Safonov?”

“Stefan,” he corrects, like I’ve offended him by using his surname. “And like I told our friend Frederick inside: Everything in Boston is my business.”

“What’s your point?” I finally ask, my patience wearing thin. “Why are you here?”

I don’t mean here at the gala —I mean here with me . All the money walking around inside, and he’s wasting his time making cryptic and weirdly accurate observations about some loser doctor on the brink of bankruptcy?

I need to know why.

“I’m not here to save you, if that’s what you’re wondering.” His thumb grazes my jaw. “I just happen to like watching what interesting people do when they’re cornered.”

My pulse thrums. It’s wild, it’s traitorous, and it’s utterly undeniable. But the worst part isn’t that Stefan is just another arrogant man who thinks I need his help. It isn’t that he’s pretending to know me, manipulating me so he can take what he wants and leave my hollowed-out husk behind.

No, the worst part is that I want all of it.

His help.

His deception.

I know this man is trouble…

… and I still want a taste.

Before I can decide whether to dredge up some half-hearted snark or see how far this rabbit hole goes, his phone vibrates.

He glances at the screen. As he does, his expression hardens into something lethal that makes me pity whoever is on the other end of that call.

“Excuse me.”

Then he strides away from me and back into the gala, barking rapid-fire Russian into the phone.

I shiver, suddenly freezing in the vacuum he leaves behind, like he took all the warmth with him. The champagne buzz that carried me through two hours of empty smiles and emptier promises evaporates. It leaves behind nothing but the cold reality of my situation.

I just wasted half an hour with a man I’ll never speak to again, and I’m still no closer to securing investors.

Behind me, the balcony door bangs open.

I smell him before I see him—cheap whiskey and cheaper cologne, a combination that turns my stomach even before I turn and see exactly what I feared I’d see.

Frederick Carson stumbling towards me.