Chapter 176
“And that’s still okay,” I say, quiet but certain.
Tessa shakes her head slowly, like she doesn’t believe me. Like she wants to believe me but doesn’t know how.
“You keep saying that,” she whispers. “Like it’s that simple.”
“It’s not simple,” I say. “It’s just true.”
–
She laughs harsh and disbelieving. “Do you really think I want a baby? I can barely keep myself alive some days.”
“Then don’t have it,” I say, calm and steady. “We’ll figure it out together. No shame, no pressure. Just… whatever you need.”
She goes still. Just for a second. Like something softens in her, only to harden again just as fast.
“Oh, come on,” she mutters. “I’m not your emotional charity case.”
“You’re not.” I look at her, really look. “You’re my best friend. The one who held my hand when I had no one. You don’t get to walk away just because things got messy.”
Her arms drop. Her posture deflates.
“I want to walk away,” she whispers. “Every part of me wants to disappear.”
“I know.” My voice shakes. “But if you go, I follow. You want to vanish? Fine. I’ll pack my bags too. Sell the bakery, ruin my credit, and chase you across Moscow.”
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A small laugh escapes her, involuntary. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m loyal.” I correct. “And stubborn. You made the mistake of loving me, Tessa. That means you’re stuck with me.”
She finally sits down on her bed, heavy like her body is made of bricks. Her hands twist in her lap.
“You really hurt me,” she says. Not accusing. Just honest.
“I know,” I whisper. “And I’ll keep showing up until you don’t flinch when you see me.”
She wipes at one eye quickly, like she thinks I don’t see. “I don’t know if I can forgive you yet.”
“You don’t have to. Not tonight.”
I crouch in front of her, gentle. “But here’s what you are going to do. You’re going to put on real clothes, come downstairs, and let me cook you something carb–loaded enough to knock the rage right out of you. Then tomorrow, you’re going to remind your entire office who the hell Tessa Orlov is. And when you’re done being mad at me, we’ll sit on the couch and talk shit about hockey players until we forget what day it is.”
A long pause. “And when you’re ready, we can talk about the baby, too.”
Then finally, with a tearful snort, she mutters, “If you burn the pasta, l‘ m actually moving to Russia.”
I grin. “Then I’ll make you five servings. Just to be safe.”
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TESSA
I do end up dragging my sorry ass back into the office.
–
Not because I wanted to I could’ve spent another day rotting in bed, thank you very much – but Emilia basically shoved a forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth, handed me a blazer, and threatened to start rearranging my books by colour if I didn’t leave the house.
So here I am. Alive, fed, and mildly resentful.
–
I don’t even pretend I’m staying for overtime. That used to be my thing drowning myself in work until the ache in my chest dulled. But I’ve been thinking lately, and apparently trauma coping mechanisms aren’t actual self–care. Who knew?
Russia taught me that working hard was safer than staying home and becoming an emotional punching bag. Now I’m trying something new: boundaries. Gross.
By the time I clock out, I’m already fantasising about my bed and pretending the world doesn’t exist. Instead, I’m walking home and doom–scrolling through a site that sells pastel onesies and breast pumps shaped like cartoon whales.
It’s hell.
No matter how many Parenting 101 videos I watch or how many forums I lurk on, I feel absolutely nothing. No glow. No maternal warmth. Just cold, tight dread in my stomach and a constant chant in my head: I don’t want this.
And then there’s Lyle whose name alone makes me want to burn every man alive. The baby would tie me to him forever. But then again, it’s not like I’d tell him. I wouldn’t hand that man a shoelace, much less a child
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Lately, though, Lyle hasn’t even taken up space in my brain. All my thoughts have been circling Theo.
Why hasn’t he replied?
Should I text again?
Is he okay?
I’m still typing and deleting messages when I glance up and stop cold.
“What the hell…”
There are cardboard boxes. Everywhere: Piled high in front of my apartment. Men are walking in and out of my place like it’s Grand Central Station, carrying trays, potted plants, and what looks like a literal golden lamp.
For a second I think maybe Emilia’s finally lost her mind and decided to remodel as revenge, but then I see her – clipboard girl.
–
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