Chapter Twenty-Two - Makar
The hospital smells like antiseptic and despair. The sharp fluorescent lights overhead do nothing to ease the tension gripping my chest as Hannah and I walk through the sterile halls. My men are stationed discreetly outside, ensuring no one disturbs us, but their presence feels meaningless compared to the storm raging inside me.
I glance at Hannah as she walks beside me, her hand resting protectively over her belly. The bump is more pronounced now, a visible reminder of what we’re here to do. Each step closer to the doctor’s office feels heavier, like my body knows what my mind refuses to admit—I don’t want to lose this child.
The alternative? The thought of Hannah risking her life to bring this baby into the world is unthinkable.
I can’t allow it.
I’ve built my entire existence around control, around ensuring the survival of what’s mine. And now, standing on the precipice of a decision that could cost me either her or the baby, I feel that control slipping through my fingers like sand.
We reach the office, and I hold the door open for her. She steps inside without a word, her back straight but her movements careful, deliberate. The doctor stands as we enter, gesturing for us to take a seat across from him.
As I lower myself into the chair beside her, I glance at her face. There’s a quiet determination there, one that’s both maddening and strangely admirable.
The doctor clears his throat, glancing between us. “Mr. and Mrs. Sharov, I understand you’re here to discuss the next steps?”
Before I can respond, Hannah speaks.
“I want to keep the child,” she says, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. “Please detail all the measures we should take to avoid complications.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My head snaps toward her, my pulse pounding in my ears.
“What?” I demand, my voice low and sharp.
She turns to me, her chin lifted in defiance. “I said I want to keep the baby. We’ve already talked about this, Makar.”
“Yes, I know—”
“You agreed to let me do it my way, but I need to know everything I’m in for first.”
The doctor shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze darting between us, but I barely notice. My focus is entirely on her, on the fire in her eyes as she challenges me.
“Hannah,” I say, my voice hardening. “This isn’t about winning an argument. It’s about your life. Do you not understand the risks?”
“I understand perfectly,” she snaps. “I’m willing to take them. This baby is a part of me, Makar. I’m not giving them up.”
Her words ignite something in me—anger, frustration, fear. Beneath it all, there’s something else. Something raw and unsettling.
She means it.
This isn’t stubbornness or a refusal to yield; it’s a choice born of love and conviction. And it terrifies me.
“You’re willing to die for this?” I ask, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
Her gaze softens slightly, but the resolve remains. “I’m willing to fight for it,” she says quietly. “For as long as I can.”
The room falls silent, the weight of her words pressing down on me like a physical force.
The doctor clears his throat again, breaking the tension. “There are steps we can take to manage the risks,” he says carefully, his tone measured. “With close monitoring, proper medication, and lifestyle adjustments, we can give both mother and child the best chance.”
I look at him, my jaw tight. “What are the odds?”
The doctor hesitates, his gaze flicking to Hannah before returning to me. “They’re not guaranteed; but with vigilance, they’re not impossible.”
I lean back in my chair, my mind racing. The idea of losing Hannah—the one person who’s managed to tear down the walls I’ve spent years building—is unbearable. So is the thought of forcing her into a decision that would destroy her.
I exhale sharply, my gaze dropping to my hands.
Hannah reaches out, her fingers brushing against mine. The touch is light but grounding, pulling me from the chaos in my head.
“Makar,” she says softly, her voice steady but tinged with emotion. “I know you’re scared. I am too, but this baby… they’re worth fighting for. We’re worth fighting for.”
Her words settle over me like a balm, soothing and infuriating all at once.
“Fine,” I say finally, my voice low and strained. “We’ll do it your way. If I see even the slightest sign of danger—”
“You’ll do what?” she challenges, her eyes narrowing.
I meet her gaze, my own hardening. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you alive,” I say firmly. “Even if you hate me for it.”
She doesn’t respond immediately, her eyes searching mine as if trying to find the truth in my words.
“Then we’ll just have to make sure it doesn’t come to that,” she says quietly, her hand tightening around mine.
The doctor nods slightly, leaning forward to adjust his glasses. His tone shifts to something more clinical, steady, and deliberate. “To manage preeclampsia effectively, we’ll need to implement several measures. This will require diligence on your part, Mrs. Sharov, as well as careful monitoring by us.”
Hannah squeezes my hand, her grip firm despite the worry etched into her features. I glance at her, studying the determination in her eyes. Whatever this entails, she’s prepared to face it.
“First,” the doctor begins, flipping through a chart, “we’ll prescribe antihypertensive medication to manage your blood pressure. It’s essential to keep it controlled to avoid further complications.”
“What kind of complications?” I ask sharply, my focus snapping back to him.
“Without intervention, preeclampsia can escalate into eclampsia, which involves seizures and other life-threatening conditions for both the mother and the baby,” he says, his voice steady but serious. “The goal is to prevent escalation entirely.”
I grit my teeth, my free hand curling into a fist on my knee. Hannah, however, nods. “What else?” she asks, her voice calm despite the weight of his words.
“You’ll also need to start taking a low-dose aspirin daily,” he continues, “which can help reduce the risk of severe preeclampsia. In addition, calcium supplements will support your overall vascular health.”
Hannah’s lips press into a thin line, and I can see her absorbing every detail, every term.
“Dietary changes will be crucial,” the doctor adds. “Low-sodium, nutrient-rich foods will help manage blood pressure. Hydration is also vital. Most importantly, you’ll need to prioritize rest.”
“Rest?” she repeats, her brow furrowing.
“Bed rest,” the doctor clarifies, his gaze meeting hers. “You’ll need to minimize physical activity and spend most of your time reclining. Standing or moving for extended periods could exacerbate your symptoms. This might feel restrictive, but it’s necessary to keep both you and the baby stable.”
Hannah’s grip on my hand tightens, but she nods slowly.
“There will likely be side effects from the medications,” the doctor continues. “Fatigue, dizziness, nausea. You may also experience swelling in your hands and feet, which is common in cases like this. I recommend wearing compression stockings to help manage that.”
Hannah doesn’t flinch, though I notice the slight tremble in her hand. “I’ll manage,” she says quietly.
The doctor pauses, his gaze softening slightly. “It won’t be easy. You’ll feel fatigued, uncomfortable, and limited in your movements. But with regular monitoring, we can ensure the best possible outcome for you and your child.”
“How often will the checkups be?” I ask, my voice tense.
“Weekly, at a minimum,” the doctor replies. “We’ll need to check her blood pressure, protein levels, and the baby’s growth and development regularly. In some cases, daily monitoring may be required, but we’ll adjust as needed.”
He reaches for a notepad, jotting down a list before handing it to Hannah. “Here’s the prescriptions for the medications you’ll need to start immediately. I’ve also included a recommendation for a home blood pressure monitor so you can track it daily. Bring the readings to each appointment.”
Hannah takes the paper, her hand shaking slightly. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible.
The doctor stands, his gaze steady as he looks between us. “Do you have any questions?”
I glance at Hannah, waiting for her to speak, but she shakes her head. “No, I think I understand.”
“Good,” he says with a nod. “We’ll be here to support you every step of the way. If you experience any symptoms—severe headaches, blurred vision, abdominal pain—don’t hesitate to come back immediately. Those could be signs of worsening conditions.”
I rise to my feet, helping Hannah up beside me. “She’ll be fine,” I say, my voice low but resolute. “She’ll have everything she needs.”
The doctor nods again, stepping aside to let us leave.
The air outside is cold and crisp, a stark contrast to the stifling tension of the hospital. Hannah clutches the prescriptions tightly in her hand, her other hand resting on her belly as we walk toward the car.
She’s quiet, her gaze fixed ahead, but I can see the weight of everything settling over her like a heavy cloak.
“You’re sure about this?” I ask, my voice breaking the silence.
Her steps falter, and she turns to look at me, her eyes fierce despite the exhaustion lining her face. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” she says firmly. “This baby… they’re worth it.”
I want to argue, to tell her she’s being reckless, but the words die in my throat. I’ve never seen her look so certain, so unwavering, and I realize that no amount of logic or pressure from me will change her mind.
She folds the prescriptions in half, slipping it into her bag before exhaling slowly. “It’s going to be hard, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say bluntly, unwilling to sugarcoat the reality of what lies ahead. “You’re not doing this alone. I’ll make sure of that.”
Her lips press into a faint smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I hope you mean that, Makar. Because this isn’t something I can handle on my own.”
I stop, turning to face her fully. “I do mean it,” I say, my voice steady. “You and the baby—you’re my responsibility. I don’t take that lightly.”
Her eyes search mine, as if trying to find the truth in my words. After a moment, she nods, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.
“Okay,” she says softly, her voice laced with both determination and vulnerability. “Then let’s do this.”
We reach the car, and I open the door for her, watching as she settles into the seat. The sight of her—strong, determined, but undeniably fragile—stirs something deep inside me.
I steady her as she lowers herself into the seat, my hand lingering at her elbow longer than necessary. She exhales softly, her shoulders relaxing as she leans back, and for a moment, I just stand there, looking at her.
Hannah tilts her head, her dark eyes meeting mine. There’s exhaustion in her gaze, but also a flicker of strength that I can’t help but admire. Without thinking, I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead.
Her breath catches, and I feel her hand brush against mine as she whispers, “Thank you.”
I don’t answer, just close the door gently before rounding the car to slide into the driver’s seat. The engine purrs to life, and as we pull away from the hospital, the tension in my chest begins to ease.
The radio hums softly in the background, a soothing melody filling the silence between us. Hannah’s head rests against the window, her hand instinctively cradling her belly.
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, my grip on the steering wheel loosening as a strange sense of calm washes over me.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel the gnawing weight of responsibility or the cold, calculating pressure of my life. Instead, there’s a quiet contentment—a fleeting moment of peace as we drive through the dark streets toward home.