Chapter 19
Sabrina
A few days later, Nikandr surprises me by suggesting we go shopping for the baby.
Not online shopping with overnight delivery to the estate, but actual shopping in an actual store where normal people buy things for their children.
“Are you sure?” I ask, looking up from the pregnancy book I’ve been reading in the sunroom. “Won’t that be a security risk?”
He closes his laptop and gives me a look that’s half-amusement, half-determination. “I think we can manage a trip to a baby boutique without causing an international incident.”
The drive into town feels surreal. I sit in the passenger seat of Nikandr’s understated sedan instead of the bulletproof SUV to which I’ve grown accustomed, watching familiar neighborhoods roll past the windows.
Maksim follows in a second car at a discreet distance, but for the first time in weeks, I feel almost normal.
The boutique Nikandr chooses is in an upscale shopping district, where everything costs three times what it should but comes wrapped in tissue paper and tied with ribbon. A soft chime announces our arrival, and I’m immediately surrounded by the most beautiful baby things I’ve ever seen.
The scent of lavender and something clean and powdery that must be designed to make expectant mothers lose their minds with nesting instincts hits me.
Display cases showcase handmade booties that cost more than my most expensive pair of shoes, and the lighting is soft and warm in a way that makes everything look like it belongs in a magazine.
“May I help you?” A woman in her fifties approaches with the kind of polished smile that suggests she works on commission. She take in Nikandr’s expensive watch and my obvious pregnancy, and her expression brightens considerably.
“We’re shopping for our first baby,” Nikandr says smoothly, resting his hand at the small of my back in a gesture that’s becoming natural between us.
“How wonderful. When are you due?”
“August,” I say, my voice coming out softer than usual. Saying it out loud to a stranger makes it feel more real somehow.
“A summer baby. How lovely. Are you finding out the gender?”
“It’s a girl,” Nikandr says, and there’s something in his voice—pride, maybe, or wonder—that makes my chest tighten with emotion.
The saleswoman clasps her hands together. “Oh, how perfect. We have the most beautiful selection for little girls. Follow me.”
I walk slowly through the store, past shelves lined with onesies in every imaginable color, pastel blankets so soft they feel like clouds, and impossibly tiny socks that make my chest ache with tenderness.
Everything is perfect and precious and designed for babies who will grow up safe and loved and wanted.
A rack of newborn gowns catches my attention, with each one more delicate than the last. I touch the edge of a white cotton dress with tiny pink rosebuds embroidered around the neckline.
The fabric is so soft it seems impossible that human hands could create something this fine.
“This would be perfect for coming home from the hospital.” I lift it carefully from the rack.
He moves closer, studying the tiny garment. “It’s beautiful, like something for a princess.”
The way he says it, like he already sees our daughter as someone precious and worthy of beautiful things, makes my eyes ache with unshed tears. I’ve never had someone look at me and see potential royalty, but he looks at our unborn child and sees nothing but wonder.
I add the gown to our basket and continue browsing, running my fingers over soft blankets and miniature cardigans.
Each item feels like a small act of faith, a belief that our daughter will arrive safely and grow up surrounded by love.
“Look at this.” I pick up a stuffed bear with button eyes and a red ribbon around its neck.
The fur is incredibly soft, and I picture our daughter holding it, sleeping with it curled against her chest, or carrying it with her as she takes her first steps and says her first words.
When I look up, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. There’s something tender in his eyes that makes my heart skip in ways that have nothing to do with pregnancy hormones.
“It’s perfect,” he says quietly. “She’ll love it.”
I set the bear carefully in the shopping basket we collected at the entrance, then move on to a display of newborn outfits. Everything is so impossibly small that it’s hard to believe a real person will actually wear these clothes.
A mobile hanging above the display catches my attention.
It has delicate elephants in soft gray and white, dancing on nearly invisible strings.
When I touch it gently, it spins with the softest chiming sound, like tiny bells in the distance.
“Do you think she’ll be big or little?” I ask, holding up a onesie that couldn’t fit a doll and see the label reads “Micro-preemie,” which makes me sad.
“Healthy,” he says immediately. “That’s all that matters.”
I smile at his answer and add mobile to our basket after returning the tiny onesie, which I hope our daughter can never wear, to the rack. The elephants continue their gentle dance, and I imagine her lying in her crib, watching them spin.
I gravitate toward a section of baby books, running my fingers along the spines of classics I remember from my own childhood.
“Goodnight Moon,” “Where the Wild Things Are,” and “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” among them.
Each title brings back memories of my mother’s voice and the way she’d curl up beside me on my narrow twin bed to transform each story into an adventure.
A leather-bound collection of fairy tales catches my attention, and I pull it from the shelf.
The cover is embossed with golden letters, and when I open it, the pages are filled with beautiful illustrations of princesses and castles and happily-ever-afters.
“She should have stories,” I say, more to myself than to Nikandr. “Good ones. The kind that teach her she can be brave and strong and still believe in magic.”
He steps closer, looking over my shoulder at the delicate illustrations. “What kind of stories did your mother tell you?”
“All kinds, but my favorites were always the ones where the princess saved herself.” I turn to a page showing a girl with long dark hair climbing down from a tower using her own braided locks. “She used to say waiting for rescue was overrated.”
He chuckles. “Smart woman.”
“The smartest.” I close the book and add it to our growing collection before I pick up a board book with bright colors and simple words. “This one’s for when she’s little. Before she’s ready for princesses and adventures.”
I let out a soft gasp at a familiar title.
“My mother used to read this one to me.” I pull out a copy of “Love You Forever.” I flip through the pages, remembering her voice and the way she’d change her tone for different characters.
The familiar words blur slightly as unexpected tears prick my eyes.
He moves closer, looking over my shoulder at the illustrations. “What was she like?”
“Stubborn. Protective. She had this way of making everything seem possible, even when things were falling apart around us.” I close the book and add it to our growing collection. “She would have loved being a grandmother.”
“She would have loved you as a mother,” he says softly.
The simple statement makes me nod, and I have to blink back sudden tears. “I hope I can be half as good as she was.”
“You will be.” His certainty surprises me. “I’ve seen how you care for people. Our daughter is lucky to have you.”
I want to ask if he thinks she’s lucky to have him too, but something about the moment feels too fragile to push. Instead, I continue browsing, letting myself imagine bedtime stories, lullabies, and all the small rituals that will make up our daughter’s childhood.
By the time we reach the register, our basket is overflowing with the stuffed bear, several outfits in newborn and three-month sizes, the mobile with dancing elephants, soft blankets, books, and a ridiculous number of tiny socks that I couldn’t resist. The saleswoman beams at us as she begins scanning each item.
“First baby?” she asks, though the answer is obvious from the way I’m watching every item get carefully wrapped.
“Yes.” I touch my belly.
“It shows. First-time parents always buy the most beautiful things.” She holds up a pair of tiny booties covered in pearl buttons. “These are handmade by a local artisan. They’re some of our most popular items.”
I start to protest when I see the total climbing higher and higher on the register display, but Nikandr hands over his credit card without even blinking.
The casual way he dismisses the expense—enough to cover my rent for two months—should probably bother me, but instead it makes me feel cared for in a way I’m not used to.
“This is too much,” I whisper as the clerk runs his card.
“It’s not nearly enough,” he counters, signing the receipt with quick, decisive strokes.
As the clerk carefully wraps each item in tissue paper and places them in elegant shopping bags with ribbon handles, I catch myself smiling. The whole process feels like a ritual, with each tiny outfit and soft blanket being prepared like gifts for a princess.
The saleswoman includes several samples of baby lotion and a small teddy bear as complimentary gifts. “Congratulations again,” she says as she hands us the bags. “Your daughter is very lucky.”
Walking out of the store with arms full of packages, I feel lighter than I have in months.
This feels normal in a way I haven’t experienced since before everything changed.
We’re just two expectant parents buying things for their baby and planning for a future that suddenly seems possible instead of terrifying.