Chapter Thirteen
Stella
I sit down by the window in my bedroom, and look at the vast gardens outside.
Groundsmen are pruning roses in the immaculate grounds that I’m still getting used to, even after weeks have passed.
My reflection in the glass shows a woman I’m also still getting used to— hair longer than I remember keeping it, face fuller, and of course, the unmistakable swell of my belly stretching the fabric of my dress.
Eight months pregnant.
The thought still catches me off guard sometimes, even as I feel my daughter’s insistent movements within me. My hand rests on the taut curve, feeling the rhythmic hiccups that Dr. Malhotra assured me are perfectly normal.
“You can expect your baby any day now,” he’d said during my last checkup, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners. “Though most first pregnancies tend to go full term or even a bit over.”
I’d nodded, both terrified and exhilarated by the thought. A few more weeks, and I’ll be holding my daughter in my arms instead of just feeling her somersaults inside me.
Some memories have returned over these past weeks— fragments of my life before the accident, like pieces of a puzzle slowly being fitted together.
I remember growing up in Russia, though the details remain hazy.
I remember being passionate about neuroscience, my fascination with how the brain works.
I remember loving the smell of old books and the taste of dark chocolate with sea salt.
But large gaps remain, particularly around my family and how I came to be here, in this magnificent house with this complicated man who watches me like a hawk.
Aleksei told Bobik about the baby last week. I smile, remembering how the boy’s face had lit up at the news.
“A sister?” he’d exclaimed, his eyes widening with delight. “I’m going to be a big brother?”
Aleksei had nodded, one hand resting protectively on my shoulder. “Yes, synok . You’ll have a little sister soon.”
Bobik had immediately launched into plans— books he wanted to read to her, science experiments they could do together when she was older, constellations he would teach her to identify in the night sky.
His enthusiasm was infectious, cutting through the fog of uncertainty that still clouds much of my existence.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. “Come in,” I call, turning from the window.
Diana enters, carrying a tray laden with food. “I thought you might prefer to eat here tonight,” she says, setting the tray on the small table near the window. “You seemed tired at lunch.”
“Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched by her thoughtfulness. “I am a bit worn out today.”
She arranges the dishes with quiet efficiency— a bowl of steaming borscht, freshly baked bread, a small salad, and what looks like some kind of chicken dish. The rich aromas make my stomach growl appreciatively.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, pouring water into a crystal glass. “Any more contractions?”
“Just the practice ones,” I reply, moving to sit at the table. “Braxton Hicks, Dr. Malhotra called them.”
Diana nods knowingly. “Mama used to say they were the body’s way of rehearsing for the main event.”
I pause, my spoon halfway to my mouth. “Your mother? She’s…” I trail off, not sure how to put into words what I already know. Her mother disappeared and was never heard from again. I’ve never spoken to Diana about her family, aside from the occasional joke about her brother.
“She’s gone,” Diana says simply, her expression carefully neutral. “You can say it.”
“I… I’m sorry,” I say softly. “It must be difficult.” I know it is for me.
I want to ask more, but hesitate, sensing her reluctance to elaborate. Instead, I taste the borscht, which is rich and flavorful, exactly how I like it. Another fragment of memory— eating this same soup as a child, though I can’t recall who made it for me.
“This is delicious,” I say. “Your mom’s recipe is wonderful.”
Diana’s expression softens slightly. “I gave it to the cook. She makes it almost the same way.” She smiles. “Almost.”
We talk as I eat, our conversation flowing more naturally than it did in those first awkward days after my return from the hospital.
Diana has a dry wit that emerges when she’s relaxed, and I find myself laughing at her deadpan observations about the staff and her subtle mockery of some of Aleksei’s more intimidating mannerisms.
“He thinks that scowl terrifies everyone,” she says, rolling her eyes, “but really, he just looks constipated.”
I nearly choke on my water. “Please don’t tell him I laughed at that,” I say when I’ve recovered.
“Your secret is safe with me,” she promises, a rare smile playing on her lips. “Besides, he’s different with you here. Softer, somehow.”
Her words send a flush of warmth through me.
It’s true that Aleksei has been attentive, almost gentle, in the weeks since my memory loss.
The intensity is still there— I don’t think that’s something he could ever fully suppress— but it’s tempered by a tenderness that seems to surprise even him sometimes.
After Diana leaves, taking the empty dishes with her, fatigue washes over me like a wave. I lie down on the bed, not bothering to change out of my dress.
Just a little nap… A few minutes…
My eyes are already growing heavy, and I drift into that strange twilight state between wakefulness and sleep, where reality blurs and memories surface like bubbles in still water.
Nick .
My brother’s name is Nick.
I see his face clearly now— younger than mine, with the same green eyes but sharper features, a crooked smile that could charm anyone. Where is he now? Why isn’t he here? I try to remember the last time I saw him, but the memory won’t solidify.
And what about our parents? I know they’re dead— Aleksei confirmed that much— but the details… they still escape me. When did they die? How? Why? The questions swirl in my mind, frustrating in their persistence and my inability to answer them.
Perhaps Nick could provide answers; if only I could reach him. But how? I don’t even know where he is, let alone how to contact him.
The memory shifts, and suddenly I’m a child again, sitting at a kitchen table. A man with my mother’s eyes is speaking in slurred Russian, his breath heavy with the smell of vodka.
“Your sister,” he’s saying, leaning in conspiratorially. “Boyana. They gave her away, you know. Not supposed to tell you. Secret.”
Uncle Igor.
The name comes to me suddenly, along with a flood of disconnected images— a shabby apartment in St. Petersburg, the smell of cigarettes and cabbage, a collection of colorful stamps he used to let me look at but never touch.
Boyana. My sister. Given up for adoption before I was born.
But that can’t be right. I remember her. I can feel her presence. Real, and yet not.
I shift onto my side, curling into myself as details trickle back.
Boyana isn’t real— she’s the imaginary friend I created as a child, the one I used to talk to in my head when I was lonely or scared. I remember those conversations vividly—sharing secrets, asking for advice, finding comfort in her imagined presence.
Yet I haven’t “spoken” to her since returning from the hospital. It’s like I’ve forgotten about my imaginary sister as well, this constant companion who was once so important to me.
Tears start rolling down my cheeks as my mind becomes a jumbled mess once again. Time seems distorted; I struggle to pinpoint exactly when certain events took place.
Did we leave Russia when I was twelve, or sixteen?
Did my parents die last year, or five years ago?
The timeline shifts and blurs, refusing to turn into anything coherent.
I don’t tell anyone about these flashbacks.
Not Diana, with her careful concern. Not Bobik, who would try to explain the neurological processes behind memory recovery with innocent enthusiasm.
And certainly not Aleksei, whose dark eyes miss nothing, who seems to be waiting for something I can’t identify.
I just want to be on my own with these fragments, these puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit together.
Aleksei seems to sense this need for solitude and respects it, leaving me to my thoughts.
He’s gotten used to my mood changes, adapting to them with a patience I wouldn’t have expected from such a formidable man.
He’s so patient.
Rolling onto my back again, I crack my eyelids and stare out into the darkness gathering beyond the windows. A gentle thump in my belly has me cupping a hand there. Two more thumps and I shift position.
“That’s my bladder, baby.” I smile, although the mild discomfort has me shifting again.
Bump.
Bump.
I roll onto my back, then huff out a breath. “No rest for the wicked, huh?”
Bump.
Sighing, I push myself up, slip out of bed, and pull on a long-sleeved top over my nightgown before heading out to the pool. The night air is cool against my skin as I make my way across the manicured lawn. The pool’s surface is perfectly still, reflecting the stars above like a mirror.
I ease myself onto one of the recliners, adjusting a cushion behind me to support my back. The night is quiet except for the gentle lapping of water against the pool’s edge and the distant chorus of crickets. Above me, the stars shine with remarkable clarity, far from the city’s light pollution.
I tilt my head back, losing myself in the vast expanse of the night sky.
I find Orion’s belt, the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia’s distinctive W shape— constellations I somehow remember, though I can’t recall who taught them to me.
The peacefulness of the night begins to lull me, my eyelids growing heavy despite my earlier insomnia.
“He’s gone.”
Suddenly, I’m looking into the eyes of a man I’m sure is Nick, his face pale and drawn. We’re standing outside a comfortable suburban home, and somehow, I know it’s my parents’ house.
“No,” I insist, grabbing his arms. “He can’t be. They’re wrong.”
Nick shakes his head, tears streaming down his face. “They say it was an accident,” he says. “The car went off the road, Stella.”
“No!” I’m screaming now, the sound tearing from my throat. “No, no, no!” My own screams surround me, the sound pressing in on me as I try to claw myself free from the overwhelming grief.
A hand strokes my hair, gentle but firm, pulling me from the nightmare. I’m being lifted, cradled against a solid chest. The transition from dream to reality is disorienting, my sobs still echoing in my ears.
“Shh, zaychik ,” Aleksei’s deep voice murmurs against my hair. “You’re safe. It was just a bad dream.”
I blink, trying to orient myself. We’re moving across the lawn, away from the pool. Aleksei is carrying me as if I weigh nothing, despite my pregnant belly. His arms are secure around me, his body warm against the night’s chill.
“Aleksei?” My voice is hoarse from crying.
“I’m here,” he says simply, his stride never faltering as he carries me back toward the house. “You fell asleep by the pool. I’m taking you back inside.”
I press my face against his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent— that warm male smell that I’ve grown to love. My tears wet the fabric of his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His hand strokes gently down my back, the rhythmic motion soothing.
“You are safe,” he repeats, his voice a low rumble I can feel against my cheek. “You just had a nightmare.”
I want to tell him it wasn’t just a nightmare— it was a memory. A terrible, real memory of learning about my father’s death. But the words stick in my throat, held back by some instinct I don’t fully understand.
Instead, I let him carry me back to his room, let him lay me gently on the bed, and pull the covers over me. His hand lingers on my cheek, thumb brushing away the remnants of tears.
“Sleep now,” he says softly. “I’ll be right here.”
He settles onto the bed, his weight creating a comforting dip in the mattress. As my eyes grow heavy again, I feel his fingers gently stroking my hair, the sensation both familiar and new. In this moment, despite all the uncertainties, all the gaps in my memory, I feel safe.
Whatever demons lurk in my past, whatever truths remain hidden, they can wait until morning. For now, I let myself be anchored by Aleksei’s quiet presence beside me.
I know he’ll take care of me.