When Iâm finally discharged from the hospital, Ruslan insists on taking me back to the penthouse.
It feels weird coming here when sex is off the table. Almost as though itâs a waste of the apartment. Somehow, it all feels like a waste now.
Does all that incredible sex weâve had mean nothing if nothing comes out of it?
Does he regret choosing me?
Iâm aware that Iâm not thinking rationally. My head hurts. My ankle hurts. My heart hurts. Everything hurts. But I canât pull myself out of the downward spiral.
I sit at the edge of his bed, staring out at the view, trying to imagine what my life will look like if I never get to carry a baby of my own, never raise a child of my own. Is this ache in my chest permanent? Will it ease with time or will I have to learn to live with it?
âEmma.â
I accept the glass of water Ruslanâs offering me but I donât take a sip despite how parched I am. It feels like every inch of motion requires energy I just donât have. And then, beneath that, it feels like I donât deserve the water, or his affection, or anything but this thudding, pounding, grinding ache in my chest.
He takes the glass off my hands but just when I think heâs about to set it down, he brings it to my lips instead. All I do is swallow; he does the rest. When Iâve finished every last drop, he unzips my dress and pulls it off me. He strips off my underwear, too.
Iâm struck by how different this experience is. Ruslan has undressed me a hundred times in the past. But this time is different. Heâs gentle. He takes it slow. He doesnât touch me except for when he needs to. The half-crazed look of passion and hunger that Iâm used to seeing in his eyes is gone. Instead, his eyebrows pull together, his lips pursed down as if heâs concentrating. I can only guess at what heâs feeling.
He has to be disappointed, too, right? He was counting on me to give him an heir.
But instead, he got stuck with the dud woman and her dud fallopian tube.
I bet heâs regretting that new contract now.
Then again, Ruslan Oryolov always thinks ahead. He probably has a hidden clause in our contract for just such a circumstance. In the event that Party B (henceforth known as âThe Dudâ) is unable to fulfill her contractually obligated duties as set forth in the preceding sections, Party A (henceforth known as âThe Bossâ) will kick The Dud to the curb and replace her with a woman who possesses a functioning fallopian tube (and no gag reflex).
He pulls the duvet over my naked body and suddenly, Iâm sobbing all over his Egyptian cotton sheets.
As if he doesnât already have enough reasons to get rid of me.
âEmmaâ¦â
A moment later, his cool chest hits my back and his arms engulf me. The coldness subsides in seconds and Iâm swimming in his oaky scent and his warmth.
âY-you donât have to do this,â I whimper.
âSleep now,â is all he whispers to me. âJust sleep.â
His voice betrays nothing. I canât see his face and, even if I could, Iâm scared of what I might see there. Yes, heâs spent this whole ordeal by my side, but guilt doesnât necessarily equal affection. And kindness doesnât equal hope.
âRuslanââ
âShh.â
His voice is gentle. Itâs almost enough to make me believe that heâs here because he cares about me. But I signed a contract that said that that would never happen. I donât want to be that girl. The girl who dared to hope for more even after she was explicitly told that more was not an option.
âSleep now. In the morning, Iâll take you back.â
Is he stamping âReturn to Senderâ on my forehead? Are those words the kiss of death? I want to ask but Iâm swallowed up in a cocktail of drugs, fatigue, and failure.
Might as well succumb to sleep now.
Iâll still be a dud tomorrow.