Chapter 27 - Abram
My heart pounds as I careen through the dark streets, tires screeching around each turn. I glance back at Zara's crumpled form in the backseat, her face pale in the fleeting glow of passing streetlights.
"Zara, please, say something," I plead, my voice raw with desperation.
She only mumbles incoherently in response, her eyelids fluttering. Panic claws at my chest. I press the accelerator harder, the engine roaring as I race toward Vladimir's mansion. It’s the closest of all our houses, and I already had my assistant bring in the doctor.
Screeching to a halt in the circular driveway, I leap out and wrench open the back door. Zara lies there so still, so fragile. I gather her carefully in my arms, cradling her against my chest.
"Sir, let us help—" one of Vladimir's staff begins, reaching for Zara.
"No!" I snarl, shouldering past them. Her weight is nothing compared to the crushing fear threatening to overwhelm me.
I burst through the front doors, my wild gaze scanning the opulent foyer. "Where?" I demand.
"This way, Sir," a maid squeaks, gesturing down a hallway.
I follow, Zara's shallow breaths ghosting against my neck. At last, we reach the living room. Dim golden light spills from ornate sconces, casting long shadows across the plush carpet.
The doctor turns as I enter, his lined face grave. "Put her here," he instructs, indicating a chaise lounge.
As I gently lay Zara down, my eyes are drawn to the array of medical equipment dominating the room. Hulking machines loom in the corners, brought in by our men, their screens glowing an eerie blue. A steady electronic hum fills the air, setting my teeth on edge.
I brush a strand of hair from Zara's forehead, my hand trembling. "Hold on, moya lyubov," I whisper. "Just hold on."
My hands tremble as I carefully arrange a plush pillow beneath her head. Her face is so pale, her usually vibrant features now slack and lifeless. I can't tear my eyes away from her, terrified that if I look elsewhere for even a moment, she might slip away from me forever. The blood on her jeans only grows darker, more permanent.
"Doctor," I say, my voice rough with emotion, "she's pregnant." The words taste like ashes in my mouth. "Was pregnant," I correct myself, the weight of loss already settling heavily on my shoulders.
The doctor's eyebrows lift slightly, but he maintains his professional demeanor. "I see. How far along?"
"About twelve weeks," I reply, my fingers intertwining with Zara's limp ones. "Will she… will she be okay?"
"Let's assess the situation first," the doctor says, his tone clipped but not unkind. He moves toward Zara with practiced efficiency, his weathered hands gentle as he begins his examination.
I watch, barely breathing, as he checks her pulse, listens to her breathing, and palpates her abdomen. The room feels suffocating, the ticking of an antique clock on the mantle marking each agonizing second.
"Her vitals are stable," the doctor murmurs, more to himself than to me. He turns to one of the machines, wheeling it closer. "I'm going to check for a fetal heartbeat."
My own heart clenches. "But surely after the trauma—"
"Let's not jump to conclusions," he interrupts, his eyes meeting mine with surprising kindness. "Miracles do happen, Mr. Zolotov."
As he applies gel to Zara's stomach and positions the ultrasound wand, I find myself holding my breath. The room fills with static, and then…
A rapid, rhythmic whooshing fills the room. My heart leaps into my throat.
"Is that…?" I can barely form the words.
The doctor nods, a small smile playing on his lips. "That's your baby's heartbeat, Mr. Zolotov. Strong and steady."
Relief floods through me, but it's quickly chased by a surge of anxiety. "But she's still unconscious. And there was so much blood…"
"Sir," the doctor says, his voice firm but gentle. "Zara is still pregnant. The baby's heartbeat is strong, which is an excellent sign. What she went through is an occurrence called a partial placenta displacement. Many times, the pregnancy is terminated, but hers has survived. Rejoice in that. However, we need to prioritize Zara's well-being right now. Her body has undergone significant trauma."
I nod, unable to tear my eyes away from Zara's pale face. "What do we need to do?"
The doctor's expression grows serious. "We need to monitor her closely. There's a risk of complete placental abruption, which could endanger both Zara and the baby."
My fingers tighten around Zara's hand. "Placental abruption? What does that mean?"
"It's when the placenta partially or completely separates from the uterus wall," he explains. "It can be caused by trauma, like what Zara experienced."
I swallow hard, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. "But you can fix it, right? You can save them both?"
The doctor takes a deep breath. "Mr. Zolotov, I want to be clear. Zara and the baby are stable right now, but we're not out of the woods yet. The next 24 hours will be critical. Beyond that, she will require three months of complete bed rest. Must she move, it will be via a wheelchair, but I would advise against that too."
***
The doctor's words echo in my mind as I watch Zara's chest rise and fall. Relief washes over me, but it's tainted by a gnawing fear that claws at my insides. My mind replays the events of the night, each moment a knife twisting in my gut.
The gunshots. The blood. Zara's scream.
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of my choices pressing down on me. How close did I come to losing everything? My fingers trace the curve of Zara's cheek, her skin cool beneath my touch.
"I'm so sorry, Sweetheart," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the hum of machines. "This is all my fault."
A soft groan escapes Zara's lips, and my eyes snap to her face. Her lashes flutter, and slowly, those beautiful brown eyes I love so much open, confusion clouding them.
"Abram?" she murmurs, her voice hoarse.
I lean in, guilt and remorse overwhelming me. "I'm here, Zara. I'm so sorry. I never meant for you to see that side of me, to put you through this."
Her brow furrows. "What happened? Where are we?"
I swallow hard, the memory of my violence flashing before my eyes. "There was… a fight. We came to get you when I realized you were missing, but it started a war. We had to… take care of it."
Zara's eyes widen, realization dawning. "The gunshots. I remember now."
"I'm sorry," I repeat, unable to meet her gaze. "I should have protected you better. I should have kept you away from all this. I can’t imagine what you must have witnessed. Seeing me kill all those peo—
Zara's hand trembles as it reaches for mine, her fingers intertwining with my own. Her voice is barely above a whisper, laced with concern as she cuts me off. "The baby… Abram, is our baby okay?"
My heart constricts at the fear in her eyes, those depths searching my face for any sign of reassurance. I take a deep breath and give her a smile.
"The baby is alright, my love," I say softly, my voice filled with tenderness. I gently place my hand on her stomach, feeling a surge of love and protectiveness wash over me. "But you gave us quite a scare. The doctor says you need to be on bed rest for the next three months."
Zara's eyes widen. "Three months? But—”
"Shh," I soothe, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "It's necessary to keep both you and our little one safe. There was… a complication. A placental abruption from the trauma."
I can see the worry etched across her delicate features, and I hate myself for putting her through this. My thumb traces small circles on her belly, a silent promise to our unborn child.
"I'll take care of everything, Zara," I murmur, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her temple. "You and our baby are my priority now. Nothing else matters."
“Thank you,” she murmurs, taking my hand in her own and pressing it against her cheek.
I swallow hard, my throat tight with emotion. She’s so innocent, and I’ve tainted her. What I've put her through crashes down on me, not allowing me respite. "Zara, I…" I repeat, my voice cracking. "I'm so sorry. For showing you that side of me, for putting you through this unnecessary stress."
My hands tremble slightly against her cheek, unable to bear the guilt of it all.
The dim light of the room casts shadows across Zara's face, but her eyes… God, her eyes are like beacons cutting through the darkness. They lock onto mine, unwavering, filled with an intensity that takes my breath away.
"Abram," she says, her voice soft but steady. "My stress wasn't because of this violent side of you that you’re so convinced to hold responsible."
I furrow my brow, confusion washing over me. "What do you mean?"
Zara's grip on my hand tightens. "I was terrified… for you. I thought I might lose you. That's what scared me more than anything. To imagine raising our baby without you, to imagine a future without you… I just couldn’t. It’s incomprehensible."
Her words hit me like a physical blow, leaving me stunned. The depth of her love, her understanding… it's more than I deserve. "Zara, I—”
"I know who you are, Abram," she interrupts, her gaze never wavering. "All of you. And I'm still here."
I clutch Zara’s hand tighter, kissing her arm up and down. The tension in my muscles begins to dissipate as I breathe in her familiar scent. My fingers thread through her silky hair as I sit by her side, holding her hand, feeling the steady rhythm of her pulse against my finger.
"You're incredible, you know that?" I murmur against her temple, my voice thick with emotion. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."
Zara tilts her head to look up at me. Her eyes, those mesmerizing pools of warmth, search my face. "You don't have to deserve me, Abram. Love isn't about deserving. It's about accepting."
Her words wash over me, soothing the jagged edges of my soul. I lean down, pressing my forehead against hers. "I accept every part of you, Zara. The good, the bad, everything in between. Though you are nothing but good.”
She reaches up, her delicate fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "And I accept you, Abram. All of you. The darkness, the light, the violence, the tenderness. It's all part of who you are, and I love you. Unconditionally."
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the intensity of her words, of her love. "We're in this together, aren't we?" I whisper, my voice barely audible.
Zara's lips brush against my hand, soft and reassuring. "Always, my love. Always."