Pregnant For My Brother-in-Law

Elena Pov The door of the cab clicks shut two blocks away, leaving me standing in the biting Manhattan wind. I pay the driver, the small, worn leather purse, Maria's gift, feeling paper-thin against the aggressive granite and steel of the Upper East Side. Don’t walk like you’re about to apologize for existing, Elena. Not today. You are twenty-four and you have a scheduled medical appointment. I straighten my navy dress, the color of determination and confidence. The Artemis Institute. A place built for the ruling class, for the Sofia Martinezes of the world. I am here for an inconvenient medical fix, something I'm not proud of. My stomach knots instantly as the thought of my sister creeps in. This week, the Martinez and Ivanov families finalize the arrangements. Sofia and Mikhail. My sister. The man who will soon be my brother-in-law. I force a slow breath. Why do I feel this sting? Sofia takes. She takes the spotlight, the praise, the perfect future. I am left with shame. The enduring family disappointment. The knowledge that I am nothing, the unfortunate survivor. My father, Antonio, is hosting a massive reception for the Ivanovs tonight. I am not invited. I am simply the error they politely pretend doesn't exist. Sofia's entire life is a performance of my father's expectations, elegant, flawless, and financially secure. And Mikhail... he is simply the prize she always expected to win. I am the mistake. She is the perfect one. Why mourn this final theft? I swallowed the blame for every perceived flaw in our home. I swallowed the silence of my father’s disdain. I swallowed the blame for a death I couldn't prevent. When does it stop? I push through the glass doors. The lobby smells of clean linen and untouchable wealth. At the glass desk, a woman with curly, waist-length hair gives me an uninterested assessment. “Elena Martinez, for Dr. Petrova,” I say, keeping my voice barely above a whisper. She pecks at her keyboard. “Ah, yes. The other Ms. Martinez. Dr. Petrova is running slightly behind. Her priority appointment just arrived, and it is taking longer than anticipated. Please take a seat in an alcove. The nurse, Maria, will call you in a moment for intake.” The "other." Always the other. I retreat to a discreet alcove. I pull out my sketchbook. My hands are shaking too much for drawing. I stare at the blank page, projecting his face onto the cream paper. Mikhail. The dominant jaw, the strong set of his shoulders. Then, the private elevator hisses open. Them. Sofia radiates victory. She is draped over Mikhail’s arm, laughing her bright, brittle laugh. Mikhail is an immovable object, a figure of power. He steals the light, turning the room into a secondary backdrop for his authority. They finish their exchange at the main desk. Sofia catches sight of me. Her society smile freezes. The distaste in her eyes is sharp, immediately cutting the sterile air. “Elena?” Sofia glides toward me, the silk of her creamy dress whispering scorn. “What on earth are you doing here? Did Maria send you to fetch something for her? This isn’t a quick-care place, darling. Not for your budget.” I lower the sketchbook, meeting her gaze. My cheeks burn, but I keep my voice steady. “Hello, Sofia. I have a private appointment with Dr. Petrova.” Her sculpted eyebrows arch in exaggerated disbelief. “An appointment? At Artemis? I didn’t realize your tiny little studio afforded you the retainer fees for specialized procedures. Or are you just hoping the Martinez name still buys you a deep discount? Father did say he was cutting you off entirely after the next quarter, didn’t he?” “Sofia.” Mikhail’s voice cuts in. It is a low, imperative rumble that silences my sister. He stands over us, his towering height blocking the light. His eyes, the color of a storm, flick to me, a cold, impersonal check. “We are late,” he tells Sofia, his attention already elsewhere. Sofia pouts but instantly complies. “But, Mikhail, it’s just Elena, she is being very—” “We are late,” he repeats, a final, unquestionable order. He doesn't look at me again. He is moving. Sofia clings to him, falling back into her role. She leans in, dropping her voice, but the triumph carries to my corner. “I told you, Mikhail, getting pregnant before the wedding is the only way to completely placate your father. And with this procedure, we can ensure—” Mikhail guides her away, a silent command for silence. He is already striding toward the private lift. As he passes, I feel the heavy, violating pressure of his presence. I stare down at my empty hands. Don't look. Don't give him that power. His final glance is a cold brush and utterly dismissive. The elevator doors hiss shut. I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. He is marrying her. That is what he wants. And I want nothing. The receptionist returns, now accompanied by a nurse with a clipboard. “Ms. Martinez? Dr. Petrova is ready for you. Maria will complete your intake.” The nurse, who also seems to be named Maria, speaks quickly. “Ms. Martinez, if you follow me. We need to confirm a few details regarding your aftercare, specifically the isolation period.” I stand. Prep. Five minutes. Peace. I follow the nurse down a long, white corridor. She shows me into Procedure Room B. I change into a paper gown that feels humiliatingly thin. “How long is the recovery, Maria?” I ask, hugging myself. “The downtime is minimal,” she says briskly, checking the machine beside the table. “However, because of the high concentration of the solution, Dr. Petrova advises a complete cessation of all high-impact activity, and, crucially, absolutely no s****l activity, for forty-eight hours. It’s to ensure maximum efficacy. Are you clear on that?” “Yes, forty-eight hours, no activity,” I confirm. She nods. “Good. Dr. Petrova will be in momentarily.” She leaves. Dr. Anya Petrova enters, moving with the focused energy of someone totally competent and exhausted. She smells faintly of antiseptic and expensive, strong coffee. “Ms. Martinez, I’m Dr. Petrova. Thank you for enduring the wait. I am very sorry about the delay; the previous patient was… complex.” She snaps on gloves, her eyes fixed intently on my chart. “That’s fine, Doctor,” I say, trying to sound relaxed. She glances up, a quick, intelligent flash. “Elena. Persistent, localized infection. Nothing severe, but definitely stubborn. We need a definitive solution. You are confirmed for the localized administration of the antibiotic solution, correct? We are targeting the source directly.” “Yes. My general practitioner recommended it after the second course of oral medication failed.” “Precisely. This is the most effective recourse. Now, let’s talk logistics. You are nervous, I see.” “A little. I have never had this treatment before. It feels… invasive.” She moves to the side of the table, her tone shifting to professional reassurance. “Understandable. I want you to understand the necessity. The infection is deep-seated in the vaginal tissue, which is why the systemic oral antibiotics are ineffective. They are diluted by the time they reach the site. We are using a targeted, high-concentration solution.” She picks up a metallic instrument, sleek and intimidatingly clean. “This is a specific applicator. It ensures the solution is placed exactly where it is needed. You will feel a cold sensation, perhaps a slight pressure, but it is not painful. The entire administration takes maybe sixty seconds.” “Sixty seconds,” I mouth. “Sixty seconds. Look at the data,” she says, tapping her chart. “We have a ninety-nine percent clearance rate with this method, versus sixty-five percent with oral antibiotics in stubborn cases like yours. This is about efficacy and precision.” She smiles, quick and practiced. “You are an artist, Elena. Your chart says you own a studio downtown. A small studio in Manhattan is a triumph. You are successful. Focus on that. Distraction is key when you are nervous.” Distraction is key. The only thing I can focus on is the wedding announcement in the society column I saw this morning, and the brief, terrifying appearance of the groom. “Dr. Petrova,” I ask, my voice a thread. “The nurse mentioned a forty-eight-hour isolation. Is that essential?” “Absolutely essential,” she confirms seriously. “The solution is highly concentrated. We need to ensure it remains in place and is fully absorbed without being displaced or diluted by any form of physical activity. This is a quick fix, Elena, but we must respect the science. Think of it as painting a delicate mural; you can’t risk smudging it before it dries.” She moves the instrument closer. “All right, Elena. Deep breath. You are doing perfectly. I need you to relax now. You will be back to your canvas and your life in less than ten minutes.” I close my eyes, focusing on the scent of antiseptic and the sound of my own ragged breath. Go back to my studio. Go back to my shadow life. Go back to my art. “Here we go,” she says. I brace myself, feeling the cold air rush against my exposed skin as she leans forward, beginning the delicate, clinical process.