Nine Months to Bear By Nicole Fox - 4

4

He’s on me fast, before I can even think to scream. “Think your mob boyfriend scares me?” Frederick corners me against the railing. His hand clamps my wrist, fingers digging right back where they were before Stefan intervened. “You’re just a stuck-up bitch who needs to be taught⁠—”

I slap him. The sound cracks through the night like a gunshot. For one suspended moment, his face goes slack with shock.

Stay away, you fucking pig. Let that be a lesson to ⁠ —

Then his meaty hand flies into my throat. “You’ll regret that, whore.”

“L-let… go…!” I try to squeak. But air is in short supply. As are sources of rescue.

Inside the ballroom, surrounded by witnesses, Frederick was merely annoying.

Out here, with nothing but forty stories of empty air below us, he’s something else entirely.

Then I realize it’s not death I have to worry about. Funny enough—in a disgustingly macabre twist of fate—it’s a part of Frederick’s anatomy that I’m already professionally familiar with.

“No one makes a fool of me, you skanky little bitch.” He starts pawing at the hem of my dress with his free hand. “I’m gonna teach you what to do with your fucking mouth. Nice ‘n’ dark out here, yeah? Quiet, too. No one will hear you scream.”

I struggle, but he’s six feet of drunken rage, his hand is a muzzle on my throat, and I had to cancel my Pilates membership five months ago when money got really tight, so I’m weaker and feebler than ever.

My high heels suddenly feel like death traps. One of them catches on the balcony ledge, and I feel myself tipping backward. The city yawns below, a hundred-foot drop that makes my stomach lurch. Panic claws up my throat, then⁠—

“I thought I fucking warned you, mudak .”

For the second time tonight, I’m saved by a voice that sounds like tectonic plates shifting.

For the second time tonight, Frederick freezes before he does something that will leave scars both inside and out.

And for the second time tonight, Stefan Safonov reaches in, peels Frederick off me, and inflicts damage on the drunken bastard.

Only this time, it’s not Frederick’s ego or his reputation that’s getting bruised and battered.

It’s his face.

Stefan’s punch is brutal and efficient. The single strike is lightning-fast and lands flush against Frederick’s jaw with a sickening pop.

Something breaks. Blood flies. Frederick drops to the floor.

I’m gawking at him in stunned horror, but Stefan is already turning to me. With a gulp, I pivot and meet his eyes.

There’s no mistaking the danger when you look at Stefan. But there’s a big difference between knowing it’s there and seeing it in person.

Gone is the sardonic businessman from moments earlier. In his place stands something darker, something that makes the primitive part of my brain tremble.

I stagger back, trembling, adrenaline making my vision swim. My mother always said I’d be judged by the company I keep—what the hell would she make of this ?

He reaches for me. I don’t believe what’s happening until his hands frame my face. “We really have to stop meeting like this.”

“I… You…” It takes me a long, embarrassing moment to realize he’s joking. When I do, my cheeks flush and I rip away from him. “I was gonna figure it out.”

Stupid pride. Another one of the things I inherited from Mom. It’s been a real pain in the ass to get rid of. Clearly, my therapist and I have lots of work left to do.

Stefan laughs in my face. “You were two seconds from becoming a Rorschach stain on the sidewalk.”

Before I can argue, his arm snakes around my waist. He pulls me around Frederick’s slumped body, leaving the man and the violence in the shadows.

I blink against the lights of the gala as we go inside. They seemed dim before, but they nearly blind me now. Guests part like the Red Sea and furtive whispers trail in our wake.

I don’t realize Stefan is leading me to the center of the dance floor until the string quartet swells into a waltz. It’s like they were waiting for his cue. The second the music starts, Stefan whirls me against his chest.

I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect. His palm at the small of my back, fingers splayed possessively, the hard plane of his chest against mine, the faint pressure of his thigh occasionally brushing mine as we move.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “At least attempt to enjoy yourself. You’ll attract less attention if it looks like I haven’t abducted you.”

“I can’t enjoy myself,” I mumble. “You just assaulted someone.”

“Correction: I improved the event’s ambiance.” His palm is heavy and reassuring on my hip. “Now, do what Frederick wishes he could do and breathe .”

My eyes snap to his just in time to see the amusement dancing there.

He didn’t kill Frederick, but something tells me he wouldn’t hesitate to do it if the need arose.

Still, I don’t breathe. Can’t. My lungs burn, my skin hypersensitive where he touches me. The room spins—or maybe it’s just Stefan, effortless and unbothered, guiding me past the throngs of gawking guests.

Including, I realize with a jolt…

… my mother.

Dr. Margaret Aster stands at the edge of the dance floor. Her eyebrows are practically disappearing into her hairline as she no doubt wonders how her failure of a daughter ended up in the arms of Boston’s most enigmatic billionaire.

Just like that, I can breathe.

Just like that, I see opportunity blooming from the shit-stained ashes of this disastrous evening.

I force my shoulders to relax and tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. His eyes are stormy blue, impossible to navigate but equally impossible to look away from. “So you’ve researched me.”

It’s the accusation I couldn’t make on the balcony, but my desperation is morphing into something useful now. I let my voice go smooth, let my lips curve into something that might pass for flirtation.

“I’ve heard of you,” he corrects. “Mostly by accident. Your clinic’s collapse is Boston Herald clickbait.” Pitching his voice low, he recites, “ Fertility Savior Flounders: Aster Daughter’s Last Egg? ’ Charming headline.”

I stiffen as that familiar shame blooms in my stomach. My mother laminated that article and mailed it to me with a Post-it, on which were scrawled two words: Fix this .

Those two words have kept me awake more nights than I care to count.

“If you’re here to mock me—” I start to pull away, but his hand slides to my lower back and keeps me in place.

“Mockery is wasted on the desperate.” He spins me. I catch glimpses of my mother’s face in the watercolor blur of the crowd. She looks oddly… pleased? That can’t be right. “You need capital. You know it , and so does your mother. How many voicemails has she left you today? Ten? Twenty?”

My stomach drops. How the hell ⁠ —?

“Your hands are a dead giveaway,” he explains when he sees my eyes practically bugging out of their sockets. “They clench every time your phone buzzes. Tell me, little fox, do you want the money to save your clinic… or is it your pride you’re trying to salvage?”

The music swells. I see my mother edging closer, clearly intent on intercepting us when the dance ends. It’s now or never.

My pitch—practiced in mirrors, polished for investors—tumbles out. “Aster Fertility Solutions has a seventy-three percent success rate, double the national average. With proper funding, we could revolutionize accessibility to⁠—”

Stefan laughs. It stops me dead in my tracks. “Cute, but pointless.” He dips me suddenly, his breath hot against my ear, the movement bringing our bodies flush together. “You don’t need a pitch. You need a villain.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I manage to stutter.

He rights me, then slips a black cardstock rectangle between my fingers. Safonov Holdings. A Back Bay address embossed in gold. “I’ll explain more when you come to my office. Tomorrow, noon. Wear something flammable.”

My laugh is half-panic, half-defiance. “You’re insane if you think I’ll⁠—”

“Oh, you’ll come.” He releases me and my body cringes at the sudden absence. “Because you’re smart. And I’m the only donor here who doesn’t want to fuck you or your business plan.”

Before I can recover, the crowd swallows him whole, leaving me clutching his card, my cheeks scorched with heat that has nothing to do with embarrassment.

Across the room, Frederick stumbles in through the double doors, leaking dark blood from his busted nose and moaning like a whale.

I tuck the card into my clutch. He was right: I’ll go. Because he’s my last hope, even if it’s a hope with all kinds of traps nested inside of it.

Tomorrow, I’ll walk into Stefan Safonov’s lair. And if I’m lucky, I’ll walk out with a deal… or my soul intact.

Everyone knows I won’t get both.