Dr. Volkov's been our family doctor for twenty years. Gray hair, kind eyes, absolute discretion. He's patched up bullet wounds, removed fingers, and disposed of bodies. A routine checkup should be nothing.
Except I'm pregnant.
And he's going to know.
"Aurora." He smiles when I enter. "Good to see you. Your father tells me you just finished your degree. Congratulations."
"Thanks." My voice sounds far away.
"Just a quick exam. Blood pressure, heart rate, general wellness check. Shouldn't take long."
I sit. Let him take my blood pressure—high, but he doesn't comment. Let him listen to my heart—racing, but again, no comment.
Then he pulls out a syringe.
"Just need to draw some blood. Routine panels, make sure everything's functioning properly."
No.
Blood tests will show everything. Hormone levels. HCG. Pregnancy.
"Is that really necessary?" I try to keep my voice casual. "I feel fine."
"Your father insists." Dr. Volkov's already tying the tourniquet around my arm. "Won't take a moment."
I look at Dad. He's standing by the door, arms crossed, watching.
There's no way out of this.
I let Dr. Volkov draw the blood. Watch him fill three vials with dark red liquid that's about to destroy my life.
"All done." He labels the vials and tucks them in his bag. "I'll have results in a few days. If anything's concerning, I'll call."
A few days.
I have a few days to figure out what to say. How to explain. What to do.
"Thank you, doctor." Dad shakes his hand. "Aurora, walk him out."
I do. My legs feel like water.
At the door, Dr. Volkov pauses. Looks at me with those kind eyes.
"Aurora," he says quietly. "If there's anything you need to tell me—anything at all—you know it's confidential."
He knows.
Somehow, he already knows.
"I'm fine," I lie.
He studies me for a long moment. Then nods. "Take care of yourself."
He leaves.
I stand in the foyer, shaking, and try to figure out how long I have before everything falls apart.
Two days.