Chapter 32 Sima
SIMA
The next week is quiet. Not peaceful, but… close.
The tension in the house hasn’t gone anywhere. There’s no shouting, though. No slammed doors. Definitely no gunfire. These days, I’ll take what I can get.
Things with Petyr have been better. He doesn’t lock me in my room anymore, which feels like a win, however small. I don’t know if it’s trust or exhaustion, but I’ll call it progress.
He still insists that one of his men tags along whenever I leave the house, though. Nothing says romance like being followed to a prenatal appointment by a parade of Viktor Krum’s scarier cousins with semi-automatics under their jackets.
But after last week’s scare, I can’t even bring myself to fight him on it. I get it. When I thought he was dead, my first instinct was to beg him to never leave the house again. Not very Simone de Beauvoir of me, but then again, I’ve been failing that subject for a while now.
Maybe I’ll take a gender studies class once I’m back in school. Women in Business, or something along those lines, to stay on track with my subject. That should put some self-respect back into my body.
Still, I can’t deny how much lighter it feels between us. Petyr is softer, calmer. When he comes home, he looks for me first. Sometimes, he even smiles.
I don’t ask what he’s thinking when he does, but part of me wants to. I want to understand what’s going on in that mind of his, what he’s planning, what he’s afraid of. I want to know him in ways I didn’t before.
Because it’s clear that’s what caused our rift. We didn’t know each other well enough to tell what was really going on. If I’d known how prone he was to speaking out of anger, or if he’d known how easily spooked I could be… Maybe we never would have broken apart in the first place.
But we did. And now, we’re learning how to put the pieces back together.
The pregnancy’s taking most of my energy, though. Between the nausea and the fatigue, my biggest accomplishment most days is sitting upright long enough to eat.
Anya still brings my meals without a word, and honestly, I prefer it that way. We understand each other better in silence. Though I do occasionally ask her how the rose bushes are doing without their human fertilizer.
As for Kira, I haven’t seen her in days, and I’m not losing sleep over it. The house is easier to breathe in without her perfume clouding every corner. Her absence feels like opening a window after a storm. A breath of fresh air to chase away the stuffy smell of moth-eaten antiques.
Petyr’s been busy, too. Meetings, calls, late nights—all the usual shebang.
But when he’s home, he touches my shoulder when he passes, or kisses my forehead before leaving. It’s small, but it feels real. Like he’s making sure I’m still here. Still his.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t mind being someone’s his.
Another bright spot is the nursery. I pick colors and fabric swatches and send Petyr pictures from the couch.
He orders the paint, the crib, the dresser, and a chair that actually reclines without sounding like a dying animal.
I approve bows and trim and the tiny clothes that make me go squee with glee when I fold them.
Today is paint day. The walls are a soft cream. The trim is white. Petyr lays tape while I sit on the floor on a sheet, paint tray balanced on a towel, and roll the color on in giddy strokes.
“Careful,” he says from the ladder.
“You be careful. I can paint and breathe at the same time without injuring myself. Look at me, a woman of many talents.”
He glances down at me, lips half-curved in a smirk. “It helps that you’re supervised.”
“Is that what this is? Supervision?” I dip the roller again. “I thought it was quality time.”
“Both,” he says. “I’m effective that way. You’re not the only one with many talents, Mrs. Gubarev.”
Mrs. Gubarev. It feels so odd, the way it rolls off the tongue. Sima Gubarev.
For once, I don’t mind my new name at all.
“Is impulse shopping considered a talent?” I nod toward the white noise machine in the corner. “Or are you going to pretend you didn’t order that at three in the morning?”
He keeps his attention on the tape and shrugs. “It was on sale.”
I shift closer to the next section of wall. I’ve missed our banter. The way I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. “You want to talk about what wasn’t on sale? The pile of stuffed animals on the chair.”
He looks over, unimpressed by the fact that the reclining chair it took us two hours to build is now buried in plush. And fluff. And whatever it is they stuff toys with.
Bears. Rabbits. A tiny red fox. An Ikea shark, for some reason. “She needs options,” Petyr says.
“She needs one soft thing,” I snort. “Maybe two.”
“She needs choices. It builds character.”
I laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“She’ll pick a favorite. The rest can go to the playroom.”
“The one that doesn’t exist yet?”
“Details.”
Warmth spreads inside me. The thought that we’re going to move to working on our daughter’s playroom after the nursery is done—it makes me want to grin until my cheeks hurt. Call me Marie Kondo, but doing this with Petyr sparks joy. There’s no other way to define it. So much joy I could burst.
I finish a section and lean back on my hands. He climbs down from the ladder to check the edge line and nods, deadly serious. I half-expect him to shake my hand. This is what passes for normal for us.
“So? How many stars?” I prod.
“I’m reserving judgment until the end.”
“God, you’re one of those people. I bet you give one-star reviews to your DoorDash guy if the cheese on your pizza is slightly askew.”
Petyr doesn’t deny. Though, to be fair, I doubt he’s ever used a delivery app in all his life. What with being filthy rich. He’s probably used to white cloth takeout.
I grab a small brush to do touch-ups near the baseboard. Petyr kneels on the other side to do the same. We work in silence for a minute, and it’s a comfortable silence. Warm.
“You know the dollhouse is too early.” I glance at him, amused. “She won’t touch it for years.”
“She will look at it,” he counters. “It gives her something to look forward to.”
“That is not how babies work.”
He considers that. “It is how I work.”
I grin at him and then flick the tip of my brush. A dot of white lands on his forearm.
He looks down at it, then at me. “Really?”
“It was an accident,” I lie, not even pretending.
He sets his brush on the tray, wipes the dot off with his thumb, and leans in. “Don’t move.”
I hold still. He reaches out and touches my cheek. “You have paint here,” he says. His thumb brushes just under my eye. He keeps his hand there a beat longer than necessary.
Heat rises under my skin. I can read him. His eyes go darker, his breath slows, and I know exactly where his head went. I’d call him a pig, except my head went the same way just now, and I’ve already thought about the word “head” too many times to pretend otherwise.
“Too close to the due date,” I warn, voice lower than I mean it to be. Though to be fair, this is the one thing we could do without upsetting the little princess-in-the-making.
“Too close,” he agrees.
But he doesn’t pull back.
I tip my chin up. He bends down. We kiss, slow and careful. No rush. Just the shape of his mouth on mine and the quiet of the room around us.
He pulls back first. “Your last line was crooked, though,” he tuts.
“I am not!” I gasp with fake outrage. “How dare you, sir? This Taskrabbit has a perfect five-star rating. Ask anyone in Brooklyn.”
“I’ll ask, alright.”
We go back to work, but still trade small jabs and small smiles between brushstrokes.
When the first coat is done, Petyr opens the window and checks the vents, and I sit in the rocking chair to catch my breath.
“You happy?” he asks from the ladder.
He means with the room. “Yes,” I say, even though that’s not what I mean. Not exclusively, anyway. “Are you?”
He looks at me then. The answer is in his face before he says a word. “Yes.”
This time, I don’t think he’s talking about the room, either.
Despite the strange edge that still runs through the house, things between us remain good. Better than good, even. We’re connected again. We talk about baby names, stand in the doorway at night and stare at the crib like it’s already full, our hearts fuller.
I’m happy. About us, and about our future.
We haven’t defined what it is yet. There’s still a lot to smooth over. But we’re working on it.
After nearly a week of something close to normal, Petyr sets his fork down at dinner. “I have to go into the club tonight,” he says. “There’s work I can’t do from here.”
I glance up from my plate. “Can’t it wait until morning?”
He shakes his head. “If it could, I wouldn’t bother. I’ve been working from the office too long as it is.”
I sigh. “You mean you’ve been pretending to work while hovering over me.”
“That’s part of the job description.”
I stab another bite of food and shrug. I don’t want to be clingy. God knows I spent weeks hammering over the point of personal freedom.
But the truth is, the emotions of that night still haven’t faded.
“Fine,” I give up eventually. Walk the walk, right? “Go. But if you’re not back before sunrise, I’m sending Luka to drag you home.”
“It won’t take long,” he assures me.
“It’s fine.” It’s really not, but I have to get over it at some point. What else am I gonna do? Lock him in a room for the rest of our natural born lives? “Go handle your mob stuff.”
His mouth twitches. “You make it sound like I’m hosting karaoke night.”
“Are you?” I ask. “Because that is something I’d actually attend.”
He gives me one of his almost-smiles, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes but still softens his face. “I’ll be back before you wake up.”
You’d better.
I kiss him goodnight in the hallway. His warmth lingers on my lips and makes me feel all fuzzy inside.
Then he’s gone, and the house feels too big without him in it.
Later, I’m in bed with a book I’ve been trying to finish for weeks.
The words blur together, my eyes heavy. The lamp casts a soft pool of light across the blankets.
I turn a page on my e-reader. Then another. Eventually, I give up. The baby’s been calm all evening inside me, and the silence feels peaceful.
I set the book on the nightstand, switch off the lamp, and sink back against the pillow.
Sleep barely has time to reach me when I hear it.
A sound. Faint, distant. Crying.
It takes a second to register what it is.
A baby.
The soft, broken wail of a baby echoing somewhere below.
My skin prickles. Every hair on my arms stands on end. There shouldn’t be any sound like that in this house. Not yet.
God, I knew it. It’s haunted. This whole nightmarish Home Depot from Hell is haunted by the ghosts of Victorian children, and I’m finally finding out.
Okay, maybe not. But still.
I sit and wait to hear it again. My eyes flick to the window. Maybe it’s the wind? Between the branches, or in the cracks of this old house, it could easily sound like wailing.
Then I hear it again.
It’s not the wind.
It’s very, very real.
I throw back the blankets and swing my legs out of bed. The floor feels cold under my feet. I press a hand to my stomach instinctively, as if I can somehow shield her from whatever this is.
The crying continues. Low, rhythmic, unmistakable.
Some instinct inside me pushes me to the door. I’d chalk it up to hormones, but the last time I did that, I ignored the prickling feeling at the back of my neck, and that’s how Anatoli cornered me. I’m not making that mistake twice.
I grab my robe and slip it on, my pulse quick and uneven. “Hello?” My voice sounds small, almost swallowed by the dark.
No answer. Just that same haunting sound.
I follow it down the hall. The lights are dim. The walls stretch long and quiet.
“The Bent-Neck Lady isn’t real,” I mutter to myself as my eyes flick to the banister despite my best rational efforts. “The Bent-Neck Lady isn’t real. We’re not even on a hill.”
At the top of the stairs, I stop.
The sound is clearer now. It sounds like it’s rising up from the first floor, just below.
I grip the railing and hesitate. It could still be nothing. The house creaks sometimes. Pipes. Old wood. Maybe it’s in my head.
But then the cry rises again. And there’s a lot of things I can ignore, but a crying baby while I’m nine months pregnant?
Good luck beating biology, brain.
I take one step down. Then another. And that’s when it happens.
Something shoves me from behind—hard.
The world flips. My breath catches in my throat as I lose my footing.
I reach for the banister, miss, and tumble forward into the dark.