Suddenly, I feel warm fingers wrapping around my arm — which right now feels like a block of ice. I turn my head and meet my best friend’s eyes, filled with silent compassion. A beat.
And then a powerful wave of nausea slams into me. I yank my arm from her warm hands and shoot up from the chair.
"Sorry, Tanya. Just a minute," I throw over my shoulder and rush into the narrow hallway.
My hand clamps over my mouth as the nausea rises dangerously close. I barely make it to the stall before my stomach turns. Finally, I pull away from the toilet and stumble out of the stall. Leaning weakly on the sink, I turn on the water. I splash my face. My breathing is still heavy, and I can’t seem to steady myself — not after what I saw, not after how my body reacted. Maybe I’m actually sick? I pause, trying to analyze.
The sudden creak of the door snaps me out of my thoughts. I blink and turn my head toward the sound.
"You okay?" Tanya asks softly, worry in her eyes.
She steps closer, touches my forearm, gently running her hands up and down in a soothing motion.
"Awful," I admit. "Because of him… and I just feel like crap today."
"Let’s go," she suggests.
I hesitate. I hate backing down — it’s not in my nature to bury my head in the sand. But another wave of nausea convinces me otherwise. I simply nod.
"Come on, honey. Don’t worry," Tanya says gently, and again, tears sting my eyes.
"Tanya, let’s not, okay? I… I’m not in the mood to talk about Maksym," I say hoarsely, as another nauseating spasm rises in my throat, forcing me to turn back and rush into the stall.
Afterwards, I feel completely drained. So when we finally step out of the café into the cool air, I can’t help but feel relieved we didn’t stay any longer.
We slip into the black car parked nearby. Artem pulls out and merges into traffic. And suddenly, it hits me — it’s really over between me and Maksym. Yes, the wound is still fresh, but I need to move forward. Today made it painfully clear — there’s no future for us.
Artem parks in front of my building. I step out, and Tanya insists on walking me up. I don’t have the strength to argue, so I simply nod, and we head inside. We ride up to my floor, I unlock the door, and we step into the apartment.
"Milana, you really don’t look well. Should I call your doctor?"
"No. Just tired. Probably something I ate."
"You sure?"
I nod. Drop my coat. Shuffle to the couch. She follows.
"Not to imply anything but..." she starts, watching me. I sit. "When was your last period?"
My eyes widen. A bitter laugh escapes.
"No, Tanya. I’m not pregnant." I freeze, stunned. No way. My heart pounds.
"Take the test," Tanya insists.
"I won’t." а sharp refusal flares inside me, the memories of hope crashing, over and over, against that single, cruel line are still too painful.
"Alright, but how will you know then?"
"I won’t," I snap back, still rebelling, but logic is already whispering how foolish that is. "Fine. I’ll go to the clinic tomorrow," I finally say.
I reassure my friend that I’m fine, and she leaves. In the morning, I force myself to go to the clinic. Results on Monday. The waiting gnaws at me. Grinding my teeth, that’s why the weekend passed so slowly.
By Monday morning, I arrive at Polyansky’s office feeling completely numb. I greet the girls, force a polite smile. I need to settle in. And then Zlata Makarenko walks in.
Shit. I freeze. We’ve never gotten along. Back when I worked for Bryl, I had plans. Until she appeared and ruined everything. That was before Maksym. It shouldn’t matter now. But from her sour face, it clearly still does. I compose myself, ready to speak. She beats me to it.
"And what are YOU doing here?" she blurts out, stunned.
"I work here. Same question."
"As what?"
"I’m a lawyer. Why?" I say, watching her face shift rapidly from shock to indignation.
"There’s already one lawyer here." She storms past me.
"Who?" I follow, confused.
"Me."
I freeze. Then who am I? She barges into the boss’s office like she owns it.
"Got a minute?" They’re on a first-name basis. That stings. I glance inside, meeting Polyansky’s turquoise eyes. For a brief moment, there’s something intense there. Then it vanishes behind his business mask.
He invites us in, explains he’s expanding. Khmilevych recommended me. I freeze again. They’re close. Too close. My chest tightens. He keeps talking. My patience thins. As if that weren’t enough, he assigns me a desk. In Zlata’s office. Seriously? Zlata storms inside, slamming the door. I shot Polyansky a sharp glare before following. We’re stuck together. She flashes a smug smile, motioning toward the only chair across from her desk. I sit, forcing myself not to react. At some point, I realize I’m exhausted from old grudges.
"We should leave the past where it belongs," I tell her.
She freezes, skeptical. It’s awkward for both of us. We won’t be friends, but we might coexist. By the end of the day, things soften. The snark remains, but she accepts the olive branch. She even joins the team for sushi without a single snide comment. Considering the circumstances, I’ll take it as a win. But then, right before quitting time, an email lands in my inbox. Lab results. My heart pounds as I click it open.