38. Lacey
38
LACEY
The fluorescent lights in the ER burn my eyes as the doctor shines a penlight in them. Everything hurts. Each breath sends daggers through my ribs. My jaw throbs with every word I try to form.
"Multiple microfractures in both arms," the doctor says, gently probing my shoulder. I wince. "Similar breaks in your shoulder blade and mandible. You're very lucky."
I try to shake my head but even that small movement makes me dizzy. "My baby," I manage to whisper through clenched teeth. "Please... is my baby okay?"
He pauses in his examination. "Your daughter is fine, Mrs. Stravinsky. The ultrasound showed normal fetal movement and heartbeat. You managed to protect her remarkably well."
Relief floods through me, making my eyes burn with fresh tears. Larina is safe. All those kicks I blocked, all that pain I endured—it was worth it. She's alive.
But there's another life I need to know about.
"My husband," I croak out. "Where's Vadim? Is he...?"
The doctor's face grows carefully neutral. "I'm not at liberty to discuss other patients' conditions at this time, Mrs. Stravinsky."
Ice forms in my veins. "Please," I beg, trying to sit up despite the stabbing pain. "He was stabbed. There was so much blood. I need to know if he's?—"
"Mrs. Stravinsky, you need to remain still," he cuts me off firmly. "You've sustained serious injuries that require immediate treatment. I cannot discuss anything else right now. Not when I don't have any idea about what is going on."
Tears stream down my face as monitors beep steadily around me. Why won't they tell me about Vadim? The last time I saw him, he was so pale, so cold in my arms.
"Doctor Osborn?" A nurse walks in. "There's someone here to see Mrs. Stravinsky."
"Send them in." He nods.
My heart leaps for a moment, hoping against hope. But it's not Vadim who walks through the door. It's Demyon. His usually bright expression is gone, replaced by something dark and grim that settles in my stomach like lead. I can see it in the tight clench of his jaw, the way his shoulders slump ever so slightly forward.
Fresh tears spring to my eyes.
"Vadim," I choke out. "Please tell me he's alive. They won't tell me anything."
"The only thing they'll let me know is that he's in surgery." Demyon takes my hand, careful of the IV lines. "The doctors are doing everything they can."
A sob rips through me, sending bolts of agony through my ribs. "This is all my fault. I insisted on walking the runway. He didn't want me to. If I hadn't been so stubborn..."
"Stop that," Demyon says firmly. "You couldn't have known what would happen."
"Everyone warned me!" My voice breaks. "And now Vadim might die because of me. Because I thought I was being so clever..."
"Lacey, listen to me?—”
"No," I cut him off, tears streaming down my face. "You don't understand. He tried to tell me it was too dangerous. He wanted me to stay safe, to protect Larina. But I wouldn't listen. I was so determined to help end this. And now..."
Demyon squeezes my hand. "This isn't your fault. Kirsan is the only one to blame."
But I can't stop the guilt crushing my chest, worse than any physical pain. The image of Vadim's blood spreading across the catwalk haunts me. The way his eyes found mine before they closed. The desperate way he tried to reach for me even as he fell.
"I can't lose him," I whisper. "I can't."
My phone shakes in my trembling hands hours later as I scroll through the interviews Megan has released, hoping to distract myself from the worry gnawing at my mind.
Each interview tells a story of survival, of hope rekindled. Each woman's face shows a different tale of rescue, but they all share the same gratitude towards Vadim and Svoboda.
"He gave me back my life," one says through tears.
"I thought I would die there," another whispers. "But then his men came..."
The testimonials blur together as fresh tears stream down my face. My ribs scream in protest with each shuddering breath, but I can't stop. This is what we fought for. What Vadim has been fighting for all along.
Then I see the final video.
The thumbnail shows Vadim staring at the camera, his expression serious but open. My heart clenches at the sight of him, healthy and whole, so different from how I last saw him bleeding out backstage from the catwalk.
My finger hovers over the play button. Part of me isn't ready to hear his voice, knowing he might never speak to me again.
But I need to see this.
I need to hear him one more time.
With a shaking breath, I press play and Vadim's familiar voice fills my hospital room.
"My mother was sixteen when Kirsan brought her to my father," he says, his eyes haunted but determined. "She was promised a modeling career, a chance to escape poverty. Instead, she found herself trapped in the hands of a monster."
Slowly and painfully, he describes how Polina suffered, how Pyotr kept her prisoner for months. His voice remains steady but I can see the pain etched in every line of his face as he reveals these dark truths.
"I was the product of her imprisonment," he continues. "When I learned the truth at fourteen, I swore I would spend my life undoing what my father and Kirsan had built. Every woman we save through Svoboda is one less victim forced to suffer in that darkness, and one less child born from that suffering."
Fresh tears blur my vision. I reach out to touch his face on the screen, remembering how his skin felt under my fingertips. The way his eyes would soften when he looked at me. How gentle his hands were when he touched my growing belly.
Please…
"The fashion industry has long looked the other way while monsters like Kirsan hide in plain sight," Vadim's voice continues. "But we can change that. We must change that."
A sob catches in my throat. This was recorded just days ago, before everything went wrong. Before Kirsan's knife found him. Now Vadim lies somewhere in this hospital, fighting for his life, and I don't even know if he'll ever speak those words to me ever again.
My fingers trace his face on the screen as he continues laying bare the ugly truth of human trafficking. Even now, wounded and possibly dying, he's still fighting. Still working to save others through this interview.
"I couldn't save my mother from what happened to her," he says softly. "But I can save others."
"What led you to this point?" Megan asks from off-camera. "To agree to do this interview and let the world know—both about what you do and about the darkness behind the fashion industry at large?"
My heart catches as Vadim's expression softens, a gentle smile playing at his lips.
"My wife, Lacey," he says, his voice filled with warmth. "She showed me what true strength looks like. The day I met her, she was fighting for a dry cleaner's that wasn't even hers to fight for. Eleven hours after her engagement ended, there she was, defending someone not for any other reason than the fact that it was the right thing to do."
His gray eyes shine with emotion. "She fought when she knew she couldn't win. Even now, pregnant with our child, she continues to fight for what's right."
Fresh tears blur my vision as he continues.
"And when I found out that she was pregnant…" He smiles and wipes at his eyes. "It's made me realize how much more work there is still to do. She's the one who made me realize that rescuing victims is only one part of a much bigger fight. That rescue means nothing if we don't give everyone still trapped in the system hope that the system itself will be destroyed. That's why I agreed to do this interview. Because I want our daughter to grow up in a world where she never has to fear. Where no child has to suffer like I did, like my mother did."
"Is there anything you'd like to say to Lacey if she's watching this?" Megan asks softly.
Vadim turns to look directly into the camera, and my breath catches. It feels like he's right here with me, those storm-gray eyes piercing straight into my soul.
" Zvyozdochka ," he says tenderly, "I love you more than life itself. I love the way you jut your chin out when you argue with me. I love the way you chew your lips when you think. And I even love it when you hum those corny old songs when you think no-one is looking. I love waking up every day next to you. And when this is all over, I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you raising our daughter together until my last breath. Whether I’m cooking for you or pampering you like the queen you are. I promise you, my little star, that I will create a world worthy of the light you bring into it."
I touch the screen again, tears falling freely now.
"Please," I whisper to whatever god might be listening. "Please don't take him from me."
Not when we're so close to that future he promised.