“Have you eaten breakfast yet?” he asks behind me. “I can have Vlad—”
“I’m fine with cereal,” I answer before he can offer up his manservant again. “And I’m sure Vlad has better things to do than running around getting me food.”
“I assure you; he does not,” Cheslav answers.
I’m too tired and freaked out by Tommy’s visit to argue with him. So I just push the button on the coffee maker and think about how crazy it is to have him here in my condo.
The coffee is done before I want it to be. I set that cup aside and grab a Starbucks Blonde roast.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Making myself a coffee too.”
“Is it decaf? Caffeine isn’t good for babies.”
I stop suddenly realizing what I was about to do. Cheslav is right. Caffeine isn’t good for babies. Luckily he said something—
That grateful thought trails off when the new penny drops. And I turn to face him, all thoughts of coffee forgotten.
He regards me, eyes blazing. “When?” he asks. “When were you going to tell me you are pregnant?”
Chapter Fourteen
He knows. Cheslav knows I’m pregnant. But how?
A dark thought occurs to me. “Oh my God, did you have me followed?”
“That was not necessary. After slip-up, I set calendar date to come visit. Today is April 6th, exactly thirty days after my seed found its way inside of you.”
I stare at him wide-eyed. “Why would you do that?”
He shrugs, like showing up at my condo unannounced is no big deal. “We Rustanovs have a bad history with secret baby. I wanted to be sure. When I see pizza box and all the ice cream, I am sure.”
I blink, wondering if this is an ESL issue or if I’m really hearing him right. “So you’re saying your family is in the habit of accidentally knocking women up. Women who don’t want to tell you they’re pregnant with your children. Even though you’re super rich.”
Cheslav shrugs. “Da. And…?”
“That’s kind of crazy, don’t you think?”
Cheslav shrugs again. “Da. And…?”
I let out a long breath. “Okay, consider yourself told. Now you can get out of here.”
“I have not yet drunk my coffee.”
At this point, I want to grab the coffee and throw it in his face.
But I also want him out of here.
I grab three cubes of sugar from the nearby bowl, throw them in the coffee, stir it two measly times with a spoon, then set it on the table.
“There you go. Feel free to take the cup with you.”
“No, I will sit with coffee, and we will talk about this baby problem. Are you sure no breakfast? Truly, it is NBD for Vlad. This is his job.”
I fold my arms under my breasts. “Okay, I’m not sure what you think there is to talk about, but—”
“We have baby on way. You will become my wife,” he says.
While at the same time, I say, “I’m not getting an abortion, and you can’t make me.”
We both stop.
Then I say, “What?”
“Why do you think I come here to make you get rid of our baby?” he demands, looking insulted.
I spread my arms and shake my head. “You called it ‘this baby problem.’”
“Yes, problem because I do not want baby out of wedlock,” he answers.
My mind reels. Of all the scenarios on my mental Excel sheet of possible outcomes from this pregnancy situation, Cheslav demanding that I marry him hadn’t been one.
“What are you? A time traveler from last century? People don’t get married just because one of them is pregnant anymore,” I inform him.
“That may be true of people. Not Rustanovs,” he answers. “
“Well, it’s true of me,” I answer right on back.
Cheslav goes very still, his eyes becoming hard as granite above his mask. “You will come home with me. While you grow baby, we will quarantine together and plan wedding. Do not fight me on this, Billie. Vlad is right outside the door. He extracted you from this condo once. He can do so again.”
My eyes widen at his threat, and fury races through my veins. “So that’s your plan, then? You’re going to force me out of my home and down the aisle at gunpoint?”
“No aisle. Courthouse,” he answers, his voice as light as mine is angry. “Then we will do big wedding when quarantine is over. Invite everybody. But if you want now, we can take engagement photos.”
“No, I don’t want that,” I say, a little flummoxed by his friendly tone.
“Okay, maybe later for engagement photos,” he says. Then he walks toward the kitchen door. “In meanwhile, I will tell Vlad to go get breakfast from Maple Street Biscuit company.”
Damn, breakfast biscuits sound delicious. But I follow him out of the kitchen to inform him, “I don’t want to have breakfast with you or go anywhere with you!”
If Cheslav hears me, he gives me no indication, just opens my front door and spits out a bunch of Russian to Vlad.
Then he closes it and informs me, “We will be having breakfast together for the rest of our lives. There is no talking me out of this. It is decided.”
I look at him for a hot second.
Then an angry second.
Then a determined one.
“Get out!” I yell at him. “Get out of my home! I don’t want you here!”
Enraged, I shove at him, but he doesn’t budge an inch.
“You will stop fighting me, Billie,” he growls. “Stop it now.”
Then he catches my arms, spins me, and the next thing I know, I’m pinned between his heavy body and the door he just closed.
And no matter how much I push and shove at him, I can’t get him to budge. In fact, he eventually captures both of my wrists and pins them above my head with what appears to be minimal effort.
“Do not fight me, krasotka.” His words are angry behind his mask. “Not on this.”
“How do you expect me to respond to any of this?” I ask him, breathing hard behind my own mask. “The only way you could get me to agree to five days with you was with threats and gun violence. And now you’re expecting me to what? Just roll over and say, ‘Sure, I’ll marry you. Sign me up for a life of not being respected by the man I call husband?’”
He stares at me, his green eyes blazing.
Then without warning, he lets me go. He steps back and scrapes a hand over his shorn hair.
“You are right.”
I lower my arms, not sure if I heard him correctly. “I’m right? So does that mean you’re letting me go?”
“No, but…” He looks me straight in the eye to say, “You are right. This is no way to start marriage.”
Oh. Disappointment sinks my heart. So he’s not letting me go.
“Or any relationship to be clear.” I rub my wrists, feeling aggravated.
“Or any relationship,” he agrees, his voice somber.
There’s a moment of quiet between us.
Then he says, “I will tell you truth, krasotka. When you leave, it was not end for me. I tried to let you go. I tell myself, ‘Chess don’t be crazy. She is not for you. It was a fun few days, and it is over now.’ But I cannot stop thinking of you. And I keep on staring at check you sent me. Not because I want to put it in bank, but because it was written by you. So I mark that April 6th date on my calendar. And I find myself obsessed with knowing. So obsessed, I can’t wait for you to get around to telling me whether you are pregnant or not.”