Chapter Twenty-Nine - Elena
The contractions start at three in the morning.
Not gentle warmth building gradually. Sharp, immediate pain that tears me from sleep with a gasp.
Aleksandr is awake instantly, hand on my arm. “What’s wrong?”
“I think—” Another contraction hits. I curl around my belly, breathing through it. “I think it’s time.”
He’s moving before I finish speaking. Phone out, barking orders. “Lock down the estate. Get Dr. Kuzmin here now. Full medical team. Armed escort.”
“Aleksandr, I don’t think there’s need for that.”
“Viktor. I want security tripled. No one in or out without my explicit approval.”
“Aleksandr.” I grab his wrist, pull his attention back to me. “I need you here. Not organizing military operations. Here. With me.”
He stops. Kneels beside the bed, both hands framing my face. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m also making sure you’re safe while this happens.”
“The baby’s coming. We planned for this. We’re ready.”
“I know. I know we are.” I can see the fear underneath his control. The same fear I’m feeling, magnified by his need to protect what he can’t actually control.
Another contraction. Stronger. I breathe through it, counting like Dr. Kuzmin taught me, focusing on the exhale.
When it passes, I’m shaking. “This is really happening.”
“Yes.” He presses his forehead to mine. “You’re going to be incredible. You’re the strongest person I know.”
“I’m terrified.”
“Me too.”
The admission helps more than confidence would. We’re both scared. Both facing something we can’t control with force or strategy.
We’ll just have to survive it together.
By the time Dr. Kuzmin arrives forty minutes later, contractions are five minutes apart.
The medical team converts one of the guest suites into a delivery room. Equipment I don’t understand, monitors that beep steadily, the controlled efficiency of professionals who do this regularly.
I’m terrified anyway.
Dr. Kuzmin examines me with practiced calm. “Four centimeters dilated. This will take time. Try to rest between contractions.”
“How long?”
“First babies are unpredictable. Could be hours. Could be all day.”
All day. Hours of this pain that’s already making me want to scream.
Aleksandr hasn’t left my side. He’s changed into surgical scrubs someone provided, seated beside the bed, hand gripping mine.
“I’m not leaving,” he says when Dr. Kuzmin suggests he might want to wait elsewhere. “I stay with her.”
“Mr. Sharov, labor can be lengthy, you’ll be waiting a while.”
“I. Stay.”
Dr. Kuzmin doesn’t argue.
The hours blur together. Pain and pressure and desperate attempts to breathe through contractions that feel like my body is tearing apart from the inside.
Aleksandr is everywhere. Holding my hand during contractions, wiping sweat from my face, murmuring in Russian—words I don’t fully understand, but the tone is soothing.
Between contractions, he gives terse orders on his phone, managing the organization with one arm while never releasing me with the other.
“You don’t have to—” I gasp between contractions. “—don’t have to work right now.”
“I’m not working. I’m making sure everything runs smoothly so I can focus on you.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s different.” He brings my hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to my knuckles. “Trust me. Everything outside this room is handled. You’re my only priority.”
Around hour six, something shifts. The pain intensifies to a level that makes me scream despite my attempts to stay controlled.
Dr. Kuzmin examines me again. Her expression tightens. “The baby’s heart rate is dropping. We need to move faster.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, panic rising.
“It means we might need to intervene. C-section if labor doesn’t progress soon.”
“No!” The word tears out. “No, I want to do this the old-fashioned way.”
“Elena?” Aleksandr’s voice is strained.
“I can do this.” I grab his wrist, force him to look at me instead of the monitors. “I can. Just stay with me. Don’t leave.”
“Never.” His hand tightens on mine. “I’m right here.”
Another contraction. Worse than before. I scream through it, not caring who hears, just needing the release.
When it passes, I hear Aleksandr speaking sharply to Dr. Kuzmin. “What’s happening? Why is it taking so long?”
“Labor progresses at its own pace.”
“That’s not an answer. Is she safe? Is the baby safe?”
“Mr. Sharov, I need you to calm down.”
“Answer the question!”
His fear is breaking through. The control he maintains so carefully splintering under the reality that he can’t force this, can’t threaten or negotiate or buy a faster resolution.
I grab his face with both hands despite the pain. Force him to focus on me instead of the doctors.
“Aleksandr. Look at me. Just me.”
His eyes meet mine. Wild. Terrified.
“I need you calm,” I say, voice shaking but firm. “I need you here with me, not fighting doctors. Can you do that?”
He takes a shuddering breath. “Yes. Yes, I can do that.”
“Then stay. Just stay.”
He nods. Settles back beside me, hand gripping mine so tight it’s almost painful.
We survive the next two hours together. Him grounding me through contractions. Me grounding him when fear makes him sharp with the medical team.
Finally—finally—Dr. Kuzmin says the words I’ve been desperate to hear.
“Ten centimeters. It’s time to push.”
Pushing is agony unlike anything I’ve experienced.
They tell me when to push, when to breathe, when to rest. The instructions blur together. All I know is pain and pressure and Aleksandr’s voice in my ear telling me I can do this, I’m strong, I’m almost there.
“I can’t.” I sob between pushes. “I changed my mind, I can’t do this.”
“You can. You are. Just a little more.”
“I can’t!”
“Elena.” He grips my face, forces me to meet his eyes. “You’re the strongest person I know. You survived me. You survived the Bratva. You can survive this. Our son needs you. I need you. So push.”
I push.
Again. And again. Until I’m screaming with effort, until everything narrows to pain and desperate need to get this baby out.
“The head is crowning. One more push, Mrs. Sharov. One more.”
I push with everything I have left.
Suddenly—relief. Pressure releasing. The sound of crying filling the room.
Our baby. Our son.
Dr. Kuzmin lifts him, still connected by the cord, and places him on my chest.
He’s tiny. Red and wrinkled and screaming. Perfect.
“You did it,” Aleksandr whispers, voice breaking. “You did it. He’s here. He’s perfect.”
I can’t speak. Can only stare at this impossibly small person on my chest, feeling his warmth, his weight, proof that he’s real.
Our son.
The weight of legacy hits differently than I expected. Not as burden or chain. Just as something living and warm and utterly dependent on us.
“Do you want to cut the cord?” Dr. Kuzmin asks Aleksandr.
He looks at me. I nod.
He cuts with shaking hands. Then the medical team takes our son briefly for cleaning and assessment while Dr. Kuzmin finishes with me.
I watch them work on the baby across the room. Counting fingers and toes. Checking reflexes. The entire time, Aleksandr’s hand never leaves my thigh. Anchoring us both.
When they bring him back, cleaned and swaddled, Aleksandr takes him with awkward care. Holds him like he’s never held anything fragile before.
Which he probably hasn’t.
I watch him soften in real time. The hard edges that define him blur as he stares at our son. Wonder and fear and love all crossing his face.
“He’s so small,” Aleksandr murmurs.
“He’s perfect.”
“He looks like you.”
“He has your eyes.”
Aleksandr sits carefully on the edge of the bed, still holding the baby. Leans down and kisses my forehead—soft, reverent, unconscious.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “For him.” His voice breaks. “For everything.”
I reach up, brush my fingers along his jaw. “We did this together.”
“We’re a family now.”
“What should we name him?” I ask.
We’d discussed names but never decided. Too many options, too much weight in choosing.
Aleksandr is quiet for a moment, then: “Mikhail. After my grandfather. The only member of my family who wasn’t… cruel.”
“Mikhail Sharov,” I test the name. “Mik for short.”[17][18]
“Mikhail.” Aleksandr smiles; genuinely smiles in a way I rarely see. “I like that.”
He passes the baby to me carefully. I cradle Mikhail against my chest, feeling his warmth, his tiny heartbeat against mine.
For the first time since this nightmare started, I don’t feel trapped.
I feel anchored.
Not by force or fear or lack of options. But by choice. By love. By this tiny person we created who needs us both.
Aleksandr’s hand settles over mine where it rests on Mikhail’s back. “You’re exhausted. You should rest.”
“I’m fine.” I can barely keep my eyes open.
“Rest. I’ll watch him. I’ll watch both of you.” He kisses my temple. “Sleep, Elena. You’ve earned it.”
I want to argue. Want to stay awake, memorize every detail of Mikhail’s face, exist in this moment forever.
Exhaustion wins. My eyes drift closed, still feeling Aleksandr’s presence beside me, still hearing Mikhail’s soft breathing.