Nine Months to Bear By Nicole Fox - 66

66

The handcuffs dig into my wrists as the SUV pulls away from Stefan’s estate. I focus on that discomfort instead of the look on his face when they took me. Like I’d ripped something vital out of his chest.

Good. Let him hurt the way I’m hurting.

Agent Medina sits across from me, scrolling through his phone. The other agent drives in silence. No one’s read me my rights yet, which seems… off. But maybe they’re waiting until we get to the station or something, I don’t know.

“Comfortable, Dr. Aster?” Medina asks without looking up.

“Peachy.”

He smirks. “That’s good. It’s a long drive.”

“To the federal building? It’s twenty minutes.”

“Who said anything about the federal building?”

My stomach drops. I sit up straighter as the satisfaction of walking away from Stefan evaporates. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we can have a real conversation.”

The driver takes a turn I don’t recognize. We’re heading away from downtown, away from any police station or federal building I know of.

“I want my lawyer.”

“Sure, yeah. You’ll get one. Maybe. Eventually.” Medina finally looks at me, and his eyes aren’t cop eyes anymore. They’re something else. Something that makes my skin crawl. “First, we need to discuss your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my⁠—”

“Please.” He holds up a hand. “Let’s not insult each other’s intelligence. We know exactly what Stefan Safonov is to you. What you are to him. We know all about you two.”

The SUV merges onto the highway heading north. Definitely not going to any station.

“You’re not FBI, are you?”

Medina laughs. “Not really, no.” He leans forward. “See, your boyfriend has been a thorn in our side for years. Untouchable. Always one step ahead. But then you came along.”

My mouth goes dry. “I don’t know anything about his business.”

“No? Nothing about the warehouses? The shipments? The money flowing through that pretty little clinic of yours?”

“There’s no money flowing through my clinic except legitimate medical payments.”

“You sure about that?” He pulls out a tablet, shows me bank records. My clinic’s accounts, every transaction highlighted and annotated. “That’s conspiracy right there. Got you dead to rights. Money laundering, too. Five to ten years, easy. Do you know what life is like for a pretty girl in federal prison, hon?”

“That’s not— I didn’t know where it came from.”

“Bullshit. You knew exactly where it came from. Who it came from, more specifically.” He swipes to another screen. Photos of me and Stefan. At the gala. Outside my clinic. In his car. “You’ve been fucking him for weeks. You’re carrying his baby. You really wanna pretend you didn’t know what kind of guy was bankrolling you?”

The driver takes an exit I don’t recognize. We’re in bland suburbia now, empty homes and weed-covered lots, all of them vacant and foreboding.

“Where are we going?”

“I told you. Somewhere quiet.”

Fear starts to uncurl in my chest. Real fear. The kind that makes your hands shake and your breath come short. “This is kidnapping.”

“Now, now, don’t throw around nasty words like that.” He puts the tablet away. “We can make this easy or hard. Your choice.”

“What do you want?”

“Stefan Safonov. Gift-wrapped with a bow.”

“I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” He studies me. “You were in his house. In his bed. You telling me you didn’t see anything? Hear anything?”

I think about the conversation I overheard between Stefan and Taras. About Mikayla. About Walsh. About business interests I didn’t understand and didn’t want to understand.

“I’m a fertility doctor. That’s all.”

He snorts. “Who just happened to get knocked up by Boston’s biggest crime boss.”

“I didn’t know⁠—”

“Stop.” His voice turns hard. “Stop playing innocent. You knew what he was. Maybe not the gory details, but you knew. And you spread your legs anyway.”

The crude words make me flinch. But worse is the kernel of truth in them. I did know. On some level, I always knew Stefan was dangerous. I just told myself it didn’t matter.

I think about his face when they cuffed me. Was the desperation real? The pain? The anguish?

Maybe I misjudged everything.

Maybe the real danger was never Stefan.

Maybe it was thinking I could walk away from him without consequences.

The SUV pulls into the driveway of a two-story colonial that looks like it belongs in a real estate catalog. White picket fence, rose bushes, the works. The kind of place where soccer moms host book clubs, not where federal agents take their prisoners.

“Home sweet home,” Medina says, getting out first.

The driver comes around to my door, opens it, grabs my elbow. He guides me up the sidewalk and through the front door.

The house smells like candles and furniture polish. There’s a floral sofa in the living room, throw pillows arranged just so. A bowl of fake fruit on the coffee table. It’s all so aggressively normal it makes my skin crawl.

“Sit,” Medina says, gesturing at the sofa.

“I want to call my lawyer,” I say again.

“Yeah, about that.” He loosens his tie and tosses his jacket over a chair. The driver does the same. They look less like FBI agents now and more like… I don’t know. Tired men doing a job they don’t particularly enjoy. “We’re not actually arresting you.”

I stay standing. “What?”

“The warrant, the whole production back there—that was just to get you out of the house. Away from Safonov.” The driver heads to the kitchen and starts making coffee like this is all perfectly normal. “Want some? It’s gonna be a long night.”

My stomach twists. “Why am I here?”

“Because someone wants to talk to you. Someone who’s been very interested in your situation.”

“Who?”

“She’ll be here soon.”

“‘She’?”

He doesn’t answer, just keeps scrolling through his phone.

I finally sit because my legs are shaking and I hate that they can see it. The handcuffs are still on, metal warming against my skin. “This is illegal.”

“Lots of things are illegal. Doesn’t mean they don’t happen.” He glances up at me. “You should know that better than anyone, considering who you’ve been sleeping with.”

“I didn’t know⁠—”

“Save it, sweetheart. We don’t actually care about your sex life. We’re just following orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“The person paying us.”

The driver brings in two mugs of coffee and sets them on the table. I look at the coffee, then at him. “How much to let me go?”

Medina laughs. “You think you can outbid our client? With what money? Your clinic’s broke, remember? And Stefan’s assets are about to be frozen. Every last fuckin’ dime. By morning, he won’t be able to buy a cup of joe, let alone your freedom.”

“Mikayla,” I whisper. “Is that who’s coming?”

“Who?”

“Stefan’s assistant. She’s the one who⁠—”

“We don’t know any Mikayla.” He seems genuinely confused. “Our client is someone else entirely.”

I blink, more lost than ever. If not Mikayla, then who?

The coffee table taunts me with its perfect arrangement. That stupid bowl of fake fruit, the precisely fanned magazines, the coasters no one will ever use. It’s all so fucking civilized while my entire world burns down.

Out of nowhere, an urge overtakes me. I kick it. Hard. The bowl goes flying, fake apples rolling across the hardwood. The magazines scatter. One of the coffee mugs tips, spilling across the glossy wood.

“Feel better?” Medina drawls, not even looking up from his phone.

No. I don’t feel better. I feel trapped and stupid and so angry I could set this whole house on fire. “I⁠—”

“Now, now. Is that any way for a mother-to-be to behave?”

The voice comes from behind me. Familiar but wrong. All fucking wrong.

I turn slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs.

She stands in the doorway primly. Silver hair swept into an elegant chignon. Cream-colored suit, pristine, untouched. The same warm smile that fooled me completely when she came into my clinic God knows how long ago.

“Hello, Olivia,” Genevieve says—except I’m now starting to think that that was never her real name. “We have so much to discuss.”

I want to say something, but I don’t remember how. I’m too busy staring at the woman I knew as Gen, trying to reconcile the vulnerable widow who cried in my office with this creature wearing her face.

The transformation is so complete it makes me dizzy. Or maybe that’s the pregnancy. Or the handcuffs cutting off my circulation. Or the fact that my entire life has imploded in the span of a few short hours.

“You look confused, dear.” She settles into the armchair across from me, crossing her ankles with elegance. Her Prada sandals catch the light—butter-soft leather with gold detailing. “Would you like something to eat? You must be hungry.” She gestures to Medina, who disappears into the kitchen.

“I want answers,” I croak.

“Of course you do.” She runs her hands over her skirt, every movement deliberate, controlled. “Intelligent women always want answers. It’s what makes you so predictable.”

I gulp. “You played me. When we met, I mean. You lied.”

“I gave you what you wanted. A patient with a touching story. An investor when you needed one most.” She folds her hands in her lap. “Tell me, would you have been so accommodating if I’d walked in as myself? Or would you have seen the threat?”

“Who are you?”

“Someone with a vested interest in Stefan Safonov’s future.”

Medina returns with a tray—finger sandwiches arranged on china, cut into perfect triangles, the crusts removed. Like we’re at a fucking tea party instead of a kidnapping.

“Eat,” Gen says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“The baby needs nutrients.”

The casual way she mentions my pregnancy makes my skin crawl. She knows. Of course she knows.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Such impatience.” She selects a sandwich and takes a small nibble. “You young women, always rushing. Never taking time to savor the moment.”

“As if this is worth savoring?” I snap despite my better instincts. “This moment where I’m handcuffed in a strange house with fake FBI agents and a fucking spook of a liar?”

“Yes, you should savor it—because this is the moment where you learn the truth.” She sets down the sandwich and dabs her lips with a napkin. “About Stefan. About his empire and your place in it.”

“I don’t have a place in it.”

“No?” She smiles thinly. “I beg to differ. You’re carrying his heir. I’d say your place is quite central.”

My stomach churns. Not morning sickness—pure dread. “What do you want with me?”

She laughs, genuine amusement in it. “Oh, my dear girl. So narcissistic. What makes you think it’s you I want?”