Pregnant With My Boss's Twin Brother's Baby

CHAPTER THREE

Irina's POV

Three weeks.

It had been three weeks since that night, and I was dying.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. But slowly, piece by piece, like I was being eroded from the inside out.

Every morning started the same way. I would wake up feeling almost normal for about thirty seconds.

Then the nausea would hit like a wave, dragging me under. I would run to the bathroom and empty my stomach until there was nothing left. Then I would dry heave until my ribs ached and tears streamed down my face.

After that, I would try to eat something. Anything. A piece of bread. Some fruit. Even just water.

But my body rejected everything. The smell of food made me gag. The sight of it made my stomach turn. Even thinking about eating made the nausea worse.

I was losing weight I couldn't afford to lose. My clothes hung loose on my frame. My face looked hollow. I had to tighten my work apron twice in the last week just to keep it from sliding off.

And I knew.

Deep down in a place I was too afraid to look, I knew what was happening to me.

But I couldn't admit it. Not even to myself. Because admitting it would make it real. And if it was real, I would have to face what came next.

So I pretended. I lied. I hid.

I avoided Dimitri as much as possible, which was harder than it should have been. He seemed to be everywhere I was. Watching me with those ocean blue eyes that saw too much. Asking questions I couldn't answer.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Did you eat today?"

"You look pale."

"When was the last time you slept?"

I lied to every question. I smiled and nodded and said I was fine, just tired, just a little under the weather.

He didn't believe me. I could see it in his face. But he was patient, giving me space to tell him the truth when I was ready.

I would never be ready.

Today, he had asked me to wash his hair.

It was something I had done hundreds of times over the past four years. A quiet ritual that belonged to just the two of us. He would sit in the chair by his bathroom sink, tilting his head back, closing his eyes. I would work shampoo through his thick dark hair, my fingers massaging his scalp in slow circles.

Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we sat in comfortable silence. Always, it felt intimate in a way that had nothing to do with the task itself.

I used to love these moments. They were the closest I ever got to touching him freely, without the pretense of duty.

Now, they were torture.

My hands shook as I filled the basin with warm water. I had to grip the edge of the sink to steady myself. The bathroom lights were too bright. The scent of his shampoo—usually pleasant—made my stomach roll.

"Are you alright?" Dimitri asked, watching me in the mirror.

"Yes, sir. Just fine."

Lie number one hundred and thirty-seven.

I poured water over his hair carefully, watching it darken and stick to his scalp. My fingers worked shampoo through the strands, but I couldn't make them move smoothly. They trembled. Fumbled. Nearly dropped the bottle twice.

"Irina."

"Yes, sir?"

"Your hands are shaking."

"Just cold, sir. The water's cold."

Lie number one hundred and thirty-eight.

I rinsed the shampoo away, watching white foam swirl down the drain. My vision blurred slightly at the edges. The room tilted just a little to the left.

I blinked hard and kept working.

Conditioner next. I squeezed some into my palm, but my hands were shaking so badly that most of it fell into the sink.

"Irina," Dimitri said again, more firmly now.

"I'm fine, sir. Just need to—"

The room tilted harder. The floor seemed to move beneath my feet. The basin in my hands suddenly weighed a thousand pounds.

"Irina!"

His voice sounded far away, like he was shouting from the end of a long tunnel.

I tried to hold on. Tried to stay upright. Tried to finish what I was doing because that's what good maids did.

They finished their tasks even when they were falling apart.

But I couldn't.

The basin slipped from my fingers.

Water splashed everywhere—on the floor, on Dimitri, on me.

And then my knees buckled, and the floor rushed up to meet me.

Strong arms caught me before I hit. Dimitri had moved so fast I didn't even see it. One second I was falling, the next I was being cradled against his chest as he lowered us both to the wet bathroom floor.

"Irina! Irina, look at me!"

I tried. I tried so hard. But everything was spinning. The ceiling. The walls. His face above mine.

"Stay with me," he was saying. "Don't you dare pass out. Stay with me."

But I couldn't.

The darkness pulled me down like water over my head, and I let it take me.

When I woke, I was in a bed.

Not my narrow cot in the servants' quarters. A real bed. Soft. Comfortable. Smelling like expensive sheets and that cologne I knew so well.

Dimitri's bed.

My eyes flew open. I tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness pushed me back down.

"Easy." An unfamiliar voice, male and calm.

"Don't move too quickly."

I turned my head carefully and saw an old man sitting in a chair beside the bed. He was gray-haired, thin, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. A medical bag sat on the floor beside him.

Dr. Petrov. The Volkov family doctor.

Terror shot through me like lightning.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

"You fainted," he said gently.

"Dimitri Volkov found you unconscious in his bathroom. You've been out for about twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes. That meant Dimitri had called the doctor immediately. That meant he was worried. That meant…

"Where is he?" I asked.

"He had an urgent meeting he couldn't miss. But he gave me very strict orders to take care of you." The doctor smiled slightly.

"He was quite insistent. I don't think I've ever seen him that worried about anyone."

Of course he was worried. Because he cared. Because he was good and kind and everything I didn't deserve.

"I'm fine," I said, trying to sit up again.

"Just tired. I can go back to work now."

"I'm afraid that's not possible." Dr. Petrov's voice was kind but firm.

"You're severely dehydrated. You've lost significant weight. Your body is under extreme stress."

"I'll eat more. I'll rest. I promise."

"Miss Irina." He leaned forward, his expression serious.

"How long have you been experiencing nausea?"

My heart stopped.

"What?"

"The nausea. The morning sickness. How long?"

"I don't know what you're—"

"Three weeks?" he interrupted gently. "Four?"

I stared at him. My mouth opened but no sound came out.

"I need to examine you," he said.

"With your permission."

"No." The word came out sharp, desperate.

"No, I'm fine. I don't need—"

"Miss Irina, I'm trying to help you."

"Then don't." Tears filled my eyes.

"Please. Just let me go back to work. Pretend you never saw anything. I'll be fine."

"You fainted. You're not eating. You're not keeping water down."

His voice was patient but unyielding.

"I can't, in good conscience, let you go without examining you."

"Please," I whispered.

"Please don't."

Because I knew what he would find. I knew what he would say. And once he said it, once he made it real, I would have to face it.

I would have to face Dimitri.

"I'm going to do a simple examination," Dr. Petrov said quietly.

"It will take five minutes. Then you'll know for certain."

"I already know," I whispered.

"Then let me confirm it."

He was too kind. Too gentle. I couldn't fight him anymore.

I nodded.

The examination was quick and professional. He checked my pulse, my blood pressure, asked questions I answered in whispers. Then he pressed gently on my lower abdomen, and I flinched.

"Tender?" he asked.

I nodded.

He sat back, removing his stethoscope. His expression was sympathetic.

"You're pregnant, Miss Irina," he said quietly.

"About four weeks along, I would estimate. That's why you've been so sick. Morning sickness, though in your case it seems to be all-day sickness."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

Pregnant.

I was pregnant.

With Alexei's baby.

The room started spinning again. Not from dizziness this time. From pure, overwhelming panic.

"No," I whispered.

"No, that's not possible."

"I'm quite certain of the diagnosis."

"But I can't be. I can't..."

"Miss Irina, you need to breathe." Dr. Petrov's voice was calm.

"You're hyperventilating."

I was. I couldn't seem to get enough air. My chest was tight. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

"This can't be happening," I gasped.

"This can't..."

"I need you to breathe slowly. In through your nose. Out through your mouth."

I tried. I tried so hard. But all I could think about was Dimitri's face when he found out. The betrayal in his eyes. The hatred.

"Does he know?" I managed to ask.

"Dimitri. Does he know?"

Dr. Petrov hesitated.

"I haven't told him. I wanted to speak with you first."

"Don't." I grabbed his arm, desperate.

"Please don't tell him. Please."

"Miss Irina—"

"He can't know. Not yet. I need time. I need to figure out how to explain. Please."

The doctor looked at me with sad, knowing eyes.

"He's going to find out eventually. You can't hide a pregnancy forever."

"I know. I know that. But please. Just give me time. Give me a week. Just one week to figure out what to say."

He was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed.

"One week," he said quietly.

"I'll give you one week to tell him yourself. But after that, if you haven't, I'll have to inform him. For your safety and the baby's."

One week.

Seven days to figure out how to tell the man I loved that I was carrying his brother's child.

Seven days to prepare for my world to end.

"Thank you," I whispered.

Dr. Petrov stood, gathering his bag.

"I'm leaving you medicine for the nausea. And strict instructions—you must eat. Small meals, bland foods. Crackers, toast, broth. Nothing spicy or fatty. And drink water. As much as you can keep down."

I nodded numbly.

"The morning sickness should pass in a few weeks. By the second trimester, you should feel much better."

Second trimester. Like I would still be here by then. Like I would still be alive.

"Rest now," he said gently. "Sleep as long as you need."

He left, closing the door softly behind him.

I lay in Dimitri's bed, one hand pressed against my still-flat stomach.

A baby.

There was a baby growing inside me.

Alexei's baby.

The product of the worst mistake of my life.

I thought about that night. About the darkness. About how sure I had been that it was Dimitri. I had given myself to him freely, joyfully, because I thought finally—finally—he had chosen me.

But he hadn't.

It had never been him at all.

And now I was pregnant with the wrong brother's child.

Tears streamed down my face, soaking Dimitri's expensive pillowcases. I curled into a ball, my whole body shaking with silent sobs.

What was I going to do?

How was I supposed to tell him?

How was I supposed to look into those ocean blue eyes and destroy everything we had?

I didn't have answers. I didn't have a plan. All I had was one week.

One week until my world ended.