Chapter 17 - Gaby
I woke to the sensation of fingers tracing patterns on my skin.
Vasily's hand moved in slow circles across my stomach—featherlight, almost reverent. His chest was warm against my back, his breath stirring my hair. For a long moment, I kept my eyes closed and let myself exist in the cocoon of his body, the aftermath of last night still humming through my veins.
"I know you're awake," he murmured against my ear.
"How?"
"Your breathing changed." His hand stilled, pressing flat against my belly. "How do you feel?"
I considered the question. My body ached in places I hadn't known could ache, but it was a good ache—the kind that came from being thoroughly, devastatingly loved. And beneath the physical sensations, something else. Something that felt dangerously like happiness.
"I feel good," I admitted. "Better than I expected."
"No nausea?"
"Not yet. Give it an hour."
He laughed softly, the sound rumbling through his chest into my back. "I've already spoken with Yelena. She's preparing bland foods for breakfast—toast, crackers, ginger tea. And I'm arranging for a doctor to come to the island. A proper obstetrician. You'll need prenatal vitamins, checkups—"
"You've been busy." I turned in his arms to face him. In the morning light, he looked younger somehow. Softer. The sharp edges that defined him seemed gentled by sleep and by whatever had shifted between us last night.
"I've been thinking. All night, while you slept." His hand found my stomach again, as if he couldn't stop touching the place where our child was growing. "There's so much to plan. So much to prepare for."
"It's early still. We have time."
"Not as much as I'd like." A shadow crossed his face—the reminder that our bubble of peace was temporary, that danger still lurked beyond the island's shores. "But enough. We'll make it enough."
I reached up and touched his jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble beneath my fingers. "You're really happy about this. The baby."
"I'm terrified," he corrected. "But yes. Beneath the terror—happy. Happier than I've been in longer than I can remember."
"Me too."
We lay there for a while, tangled together, his hand warm on my belly. The Mediterranean light grew brighter through the windows, painting golden stripes across the bed. Outside, I could hear the distant calls of seabirds, the whisper of wind through the gardens.
It felt like peace. Like home.
I was afraid to trust it.
***
Over breakfast, I asked him about Lisa.
The question had been building for days—weeks, really. Ever since I'd accepted that my old life was gone, that I couldn't simply return to the apartment and the job and the routines I'd known. But accepting that didn't mean I could forget the people I'd left behind.
Lisa, who'd been my best friend since college. Who'd talked me through breakups and job disappointments and the endless disappointment of my father. Who'd filed a missing persons report when I'd vanished, who was probably still searching for answers I couldn't give.
"I need to talk to her," I said, watching Vasily's face for his reaction. "I know it's risky. I know there are reasons to stay invisible. But she thinks I'm dead, Vasily. She's been living with that for weeks. I can't let her keep believing it."
He was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. I braced myself for refusal—for the reminder that I was still, in some ways, his prisoner. That my freedom had limits.
"What would you tell her?" he asked finally.
"That I'm alive. That I'm safe." I hesitated. "That I can't come home. Not yet."
"She'll ask questions."
"I know. I'll be careful what I answer."
"She'll want to know where you are. Who you're with. Why you disappeared."
"I won't tell her anything that could put anyone in danger. Not her, not you, not—" My hand drifted to my stomach. "Not the baby."
Vasily studied me across the table, those green eyes weighing something I couldn't see. I held my breath, waiting.
"The call will need to be monitored," he said. "Not because I don't trust you—but because I need to know if anything she says suggests a threat. If Pankratov has reached out to people in your life, used them to try to find you—"
"I understand."
"You can't tell her where you are. Not specifically. Not the island, not Greece. If she asks, you're in Europe. That's all."
"Okay."
"And Gabrielle—" He leaned forward, his expression intense. "If at any point during the conversation you feel something is wrong—if she says something that doesn't fit, asks questions that feel scripted—you end the call immediately. No hesitation."
I nodded, my throat tight. He was giving me this. Despite the risks, despite his instinct to control every variable, he was giving me this connection to my old life.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Don't thank me." He reached across the table and took my hand. "You've given up everything because of me. Your home, your job, your freedom. The least I can do is let you talk to your friend."
***
The call was arranged for that afternoon.
Kirill set up a secure line in Vasily's study—encrypted, untraceable, routed through a series of servers that would make it impossible to pinpoint my location. Vasily sat across the room, close enough to hear but far enough to give me the illusion of privacy.
My fingers trembled as I dialed the number I'd known by heart since sophomore year.
It rang three times. Four. I was starting to think she wouldn't answer—it was a strange number, after all, and Lisa was cautious about unknown callers—when the line clicked.
"Hello?"
Her voice. Familiar and sharp and so achingly normal that my eyes filled with tears before I could speak.
"Lisa. It's me."
Silence. One beat. Two.
Then: "Gaby? Oh my God—Gaby, is that you?"
"It's me." The tears were falling now, sliding down my cheeks unchecked. "I'm so sorry, Lisa. I'm so sorry I couldn't—"
"Where the hell are you?" Her voice cracked, anger and relief colliding. "Do you have any idea—I filed a police report, Gaby. I've been calling hospitals, morgues—I thought you were dead. I thought someone had—"
"I know. I know, and I'm sorry. I couldn't contact you before. It wasn't safe."
"Wasn't safe? What does that even mean? What happened to you?"
I glanced at Vasily, who gave me a small nod. Careful. Be careful.
"I can't explain everything," I said. "Not over the phone. But I need you to know that I'm alive, and I'm safe. I'm not in danger."
"Not in danger? Gaby, you disappeared. Your apartment was broken into—the police found signs of forced entry. Your phone was disconnected. You missed the—" She stopped abruptly.
"Missed what?"
"The Carlsen gala. Your father called me, looking for you. Said you'd promised to come." Lisa's voice hardened. "Not that he seemed particularly worried. More annoyed that you'd embarrassed him in front of his colleagues."
Of course. Of course my father's primary concern would be how my disappearance reflected on him. I pushed down the familiar bitterness and focused on the conversation at hand.
"I should have found a way to contact you sooner. But the situation was—complicated. I'm only now in a position where it's safe to reach out."
"Safe from what? From who?" Lisa's voice sharpened. "Gaby, are you in some kind of trouble? Because if someone's forcing you to say these things—"
"No one's forcing me." The irony of the statement wasn't lost on me, but it was true now. Whatever I'd been in the beginning, I wasn't a prisoner anymore. Not really. "I'm making my own choices, Lisa. They're just not choices I can fully explain."
She was quiet for a moment, processing. I could picture her expression—the furrow between her brows, the way she chewed her lip when she was thinking hard.
"Where are you?" she asked finally.
"Europe."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you."
More silence. Then: "Are you with someone? Is this about a guy?"
I laughed despite myself—a wet, hiccupping sound. "In a manner of speaking."
"Gaby..."
"I'm married, Lisa."
The silence that followed was deafening. I counted the seconds—one, two, three, four—before she finally spoke.
"Married." The word came out flat, disbelieving. "You're married. To who? When? How is that even—"
"It happened quickly. I know it sounds insane.
I know you have a million questions I can't answer.
" I pressed my free hand to my stomach, drawing strength from what was growing there.
"But he's—he's not what you'd expect. He's complicated and difficult and he's done things I can't forgive, not entirely.
But he's also kind, in his way. And he takes care of me. And I—"
I stopped, not sure how to finish. Not sure what word applied to what I felt for Vasily Chernov.
"You love him," Lisa said quietly.
Did I? The question had been circling at the edges of my consciousness for days, but I'd been too afraid to examine it directly. Love felt too simple for what existed between us. Too clean.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I'm not unhappy. That probably sounds pathetic, given everything, but it's the truth. I'm not unhappy."
"And he treats you well? This mysterious husband?"
I looked across the room at Vasily, who was watching me with those intense green eyes.
He'd given me this call. Had agreed to let me reconnect with my past, even knowing it posed risks.
Because he understood that I needed it. Because he was trying, in his own imperfect way, to give me what I needed.
"Yes," I said. "He treats me well."
Lisa exhaled slowly. "There's something else. I can hear it in your voice. What aren't you telling me?"
I smiled despite myself. She'd always been able to read me, even over the phone.
"I'm pregnant."
The silence this time was shorter—three seconds, maybe four—before Lisa burst out: "Pregnant? As in, having a baby? As in, you're going to be a mother?"
"That's generally what pregnant means, yes."
"Holy shit, Gaby." She laughed, the sound slightly hysterical. "You disappear for a month, and when you finally call, it's to tell me you're married and pregnant and living somewhere in Europe with a mysterious husband you can't talk about."
"When you put it like that, it does sound dramatic."
"Dramatic? It sounds like a Netflix series." But beneath the incredulity, I heard something else. Relief. Acceptance. The beginning of understanding. "Are you happy? About the baby, I mean?"
"I'm terrified," I admitted. "But yes. Beneath the terror—I'm happy."
"Then I'm happy for you." Her voice softened. "Even if I don't understand any of this. Even if I have a thousand questions, you won't answer. If you're safe and you're okay and this is what you want—then I'm happy for you."
The tears started again, and this time I didn't try to stop them. "I miss you, Lisa. So much."
"I miss you too, you absolute lunatic." She sniffled—was she crying too? "Promise me you'll call again. I don't care how encrypted or secure the line has to be. Promise me this isn't the last time I hear from you."
"I promise."
"And when you can—when it's safe—I want to meet this husband. I want to see you in person, see that you're really okay."
"You will. I don't know when, but—you will."
"I'm holding you to that."
We talked for a few more minutes—lighter things, surface things.
Lisa filled me in on office gossip, on the chaos that had followed my disappearance, on the new assistant who'd taken over my accounts and was apparently terrible.
Normal things. The kind of conversation we'd had a hundred times before.
But beneath the normalcy, we both knew everything had changed.
"I have to go," I said finally. "But Lisa—thank you. For not giving up on me. For still being here."
"I'll always be here, Gaby. No matter what insane choices you make." A pause. "I love you, you know."
"I love you too."
I ended the call and sat there for a moment, the phone heavy in my hand. The connection to my old life hummed through me—bittersweet, overwhelming. I'd thought hearing Lisa's voice would make me feel better. Instead, it had cracked something open.
The tears came then, in earnest. Not quiet crying, but deep, wrenching sobs that shook my whole body. I cried for Lisa. For the life I'd lost. For the woman I'd been before Vasily Chernov had torn my world apart.
I didn't hear him cross the room, but suddenly he was there. Arms wrapping around me, pulling me against his chest. He didn't speak, didn't offer platitudes, or try to fix what couldn't be fixed. Just held me while I mourned.
"I'm sorry," I gasped between sobs. "I don't know why I can't stop—"
"Don't apologize." His hand stroked my hair, steady and sure. "You're grieving. It's allowed."
"I didn't think it would hit me this hard. I thought I was past—"
"You don't have to be past anything." He pulled back just enough to look at my face, his thumbs wiping tears from my cheeks. "You can miss your old life and still build a new one. The two aren't mutually exclusive."
"Is that what we're doing? Building a new life?"
"Yes." The word was simple, certain. "Together. All three of us."
I pressed my face into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him. He held me until the sobs subsided, until my breathing steadied, until the grief loosened its grip enough for me to think clearly again.
Lisa knew I was alive. Lisa knew I was married, pregnant, somewhere in Europe with a man I couldn't fully explain. She didn't understand, might never understand, but she was still there. Still my friend.
It wasn't closure, exactly. But it was something.
"Thank you," I said quietly. "For letting me have this."
"You don't need to thank me for things you should never have had to ask for." He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Come. You need rest. And food. And probably more ginger tea."
I laughed despite myself—a watery, exhausted sound. "You're going to be insufferable about this pregnancy, aren't you?"
"Absolutely." He helped me to my feet, his arm steady around my waist. "I plan to be the most insufferable expectant father in history."
"I believe you."
"Good. Now let me take care of you."
I let him lead me from the study, his warmth solid at my side. Through the windows, the Mediterranean sparkled in the afternoon light—beautiful, remote, a world away from everything I'd known.
But maybe that was okay. Maybe building a new life meant letting go of the old one, piece by piece, until what remained was strong enough to stand on its own.
I wasn't there yet. Might not be for a long time.
But I was trying.