Chapter Twenty
Stella
I don’t get a chance to come to any conclusions because later that day, the first contraction catches me mid-step.
A tightening band across my lower back, wrapping around to squeeze my belly with unexpected force. I freeze, one hand braced against the bedroom wall, the other instinctively cradling my belly.
It can’t be.
Not yet.
Not today.
I’ve been pacing this room for hours, trapped in my thoughts, avoiding Aleksei. My due date is in three weeks. Three weeks early is too soon. Dr. Malhotra said first babies usually come late. We’re not ready— I’m not ready.
The pain recedes, leaving me breathless but unconvinced.
False contractions.
Braxton Hicks.
That’s all this is.
I resume pacing, one hand still protectively curved around my stomach. I focus on the sunlight dappling the floor. I’ve been keeping track of time by these shadows, watching minutes stretch into hours as I avoid decisions I can’t face.
Twenty minutes later, the second contraction hits harder than the first. I gasp, doubling over as the pain radiates through my pelvis. This time, there’s no denying what’s happening.
Our daughter is coming. Today. Now.
Fear floods my system— not of the pain, but of what comes after. Of decisions I’ll have to make once she’s here. Of the man who will be her father.
The man who killed mine.
A warm trickle down my thigh confirms what I already know. My water has broken. The clock is ticking.
Shit.
I need help. I need him.
The irony isn’t lost on me as I stand there, fluid pooling at my feet, pain building again in my lower back. After days of avoiding his touch, his voice, his presence— now I need him more than ever.
You don’t have an option, Stella.
“Aleksei,” I call, my voice too weak. I clear my throat and try again, louder. “Aleksei!” His name changes into a low groan as another spasm takes me.
He appears in the doorway so quickly that I wonder if he’s been waiting just outside. His eyes take in the scene— my hunched posture, the wetness on the floor, the panic written across my face— and understanding dawns immediately.
“The baby,” he says. Not a question.
I nod, another contraction building. “It’s too early.”
Something shifts in his expression— concern replacing his usual guarded look. He crosses the room in three long strides, one arm encircling my shoulders while the other reaches for his phone.
“Three weeks is nothing,” he says, his voice steady as he dials. “She’ll be fine. You’ll both be fine.”
The certainty in his tone offers strange comfort as pain crests again. I find myself leaning into his solid frame, accepting his support despite everything I know about him. Despite Hannah’s warnings. Despite the blood on his hands.
He speaks rapidly into the phone— Russian, then English— arranging whatever a man like Aleksei Tarasov arranges when his child is about to be born. I catch fragments: “The private suite. Full security protocol. Dr. Malhotra and his team.”
His free hand rubs slow circles on my lower back, the pressure somehow easing the worst of the contraction. The gentleness of the gesture nearly undoes me.
How can these be the same hands that could kill another man?
“Can you walk?” he asks when the call ends.
Another contraction answers for me, stronger than before. I clutch his arm, nails digging into expensive fabric as I fight to breathe through the pain.
“That’s a no,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
In one fluid motion, he lifts me into his arms. I should protest— should maintain whatever distance I can— but self-preservation wins over pride. I loop my arms around his neck as he carries me from the bedroom, down the corridor, toward the main entrance where I know his car will be waiting.
The pain ebbs for a moment, giving me clarity to observe him. His jaw is tight, eyes focused ahead, but there’s something else in his expression I’ve rarely seen: fear. Not for himself— Aleksei Tarasov fears nothing for himself— but for me. For our daughter.
Once more, the contradiction tears at me. How can the same man who destroyed my family now show such concern for the family we’re creating?
“You’re going to be fine,” he says again as we reach the car, Sasha already holding the door open. “Both of you.”
Is he saying it for me, or for himself?
He settles me in the backseat with surprising care, sliding in beside me rather than taking his usual place up front. As Sasha pulls away from Blackwood Manor, another contraction builds. I grip the leather seat, trying to breathe through it.
Aleksei takes my hand, placing it against his chest.
“Like this,” he says, exaggerating his breathing. “Slow. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
I find myself following his lead, matching my breaths to his. The pain remains, but somehow becomes manageable. When it passes, I don’t pull my hand away. His heartbeat is strong and steady beneath my palm.
“Where did you learn that?” I ask, curiosity temporarily overriding my fear.
A shadow crosses his face. “Olga. When Bobik was born.”
The mention of his son’s dead mother reminds me of all I still don’t understand about this man. All the secrets still between us.
Before I can respond, another contraction begins. They’re coming faster now, more intense. Aleksei checks his watch.
“ Bystréye, chyórt poberí! ” he snaps at Sasha, who responds by stepping on the gas.
I close my eyes, focusing on survival. On breathing. On the tiny life inside me preparing to enter the world.
A world where her father is both protector and predator. Where her mother is caught between love and vengeance. Where nothing is as simple as Hannah painted it.
“He’s a monster, Stella. A killer. Get out while you can.”
Hannah’s words echo in my mind as the car speeds through Los Angeles traffic, as Aleksei’s hand supports my back, murmuring encouragement in my ear.
Is this tenderness an act? Or is this the real man behind the monster Hannah described?
As we pull up to the hospital, I find myself praying more and more that it’s not true.
That it’s all a mistake. Because I want to put my faith in this man who is barking out orders that has people rushing to help me.
I barely get a chance to see the emergency entrance before I’m being whisked through the wards.
The private suite looks more like a luxury hotel than a medical facility. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer panoramic views of the city. Artwork hangs on walls painted in soothing tones. Fresh flowers fill crystal vases on every surface.
I notice these details in fragments between contractions, which now come relentlessly, barely giving me time to recover before the next begins.
Dr. Malhotra arrives minutes after we do, already gowned and gloved. He examines me with clinical efficiency while a team of nurses prepares equipment around us.
“Six centimeters dilated,” he announces. “This baby is eager to meet her parents.”
Her parents. The phrase hangs in the air between Aleksei and me. Despite everything, we are about to be bound together by something more permanent than marriage, more powerful than any business arrangement.
A child.
Our child.
An officious-looking sister turns to Aleksei. “Sir, there’s a waiting area outside where you might be more comfortable,” she says.
The look he gives her could freeze blood. “I stay,” he says in a tone that has her visibly shrinking back.
As another contraction builds, I find myself grateful for his presence. I hate needing him, but God, I need him right now.
The next hours blur into a haze of pain and effort.
The contractions intensify until they’re nearly continuous, my body working beyond my control to bring our daughter into the world.
Through it all, Aleksei remains a constant presence— wiping sweat from my forehead, supporting my back when I need to change positions, speaking quiet words of encouragement that sound strange in his usually commanding voice.
“You’re doing well, milaya ,” he murmurs as I grip his hand hard enough to break bones. He doesn’t flinch. “You’re the strongest woman I know.”
The endearment slips out so naturally that I wonder if he realizes he’s said it. Milaya . Dear one. The same word he whispered on many of the nights that he’s taken me to his bed.
During one particularly brutal contraction, I find myself thinking of my mother. Did my father hold her hand like this when I was born? Did he wipe her brow and tell her she was strong? The thought brings tears that have nothing to do with the physical pain.
“It hurts,” I gasp, meaning more than just the labor.
“I know.” Aleksei’s eyes hold mine, and for a moment, I wonder if he understands the double meaning. “But you’re not alone.”
That’s the cruelest part. I’m not alone, but in a way, I am. The man I should hate more than anyone is the one person I can’t push away right now.
Time loses meaning as my body works to bring our daughter into the world. The sun sets outside the windows, city lights replacing natural glow. Monitors beep steadily, tracking two heartbeats— mine racing, the baby’s strong and consistent.
When Dr. Malhotra announces it’s time to push, fear and anticipation surge through me in equal measure. This is it. The moment that changes everything.
“I can’t,” I whisper, suddenly terrified. Not of the pain, but of what comes after. Of being a mother. Of decisions I’ll have to make.
Aleksei leans close, his forehead almost touching mine. “You can,” he says firmly. “You will. For her.”
Something in his voice centers me. The certainty. The faith in my strength that I don’t feel myself.
I push when told, retreat when instructed, my world narrowing to these simple commands and the overwhelming pressure building inside me. Aleksei never leaves my side, one hand gripping mine, the other supporting me as I bear down.
“The head is crowning,” Dr. Malhotra announces. “One more big push, Stella.”
I gather whatever strength remains, focusing everything on this final effort. The pressure peaks, then releases in a rush of sensation too complex to be called simply pain.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor confirms as a thin, indignant cry fills the room.
Our daughter enters the world at 8:47 p.m., three weeks early, but perfect in every way.
They place her on my chest immediately, her tiny body slick and warm against my skin. She’s so small— smaller than I imagined— with a shock of dark hair and a fierce expression as she protests this new, cold world.
“Polina,” I whisper, the name we’d chosen suddenly feeling right as I look at her face. “Hello, little one.”
I glance up at Aleksei, expecting to see his usual controlled expression. Instead, I find him transformed.
Tears— actual tears— shine in his eyes as he looks at our daughter. His hand, when he reaches to touch her cheek, trembles slightly. The gesture is so gentle it takes my breath away.
“ Moya doch ,” he murmurs. My daughter. The words come out choked.
In this moment, he isn’t the man I’ve been afraid of these past days. He isn’t the man who’s left me so conflicted. He’s just a father, seeing his child for the first time, overcome with an emotion I never thought him capable of feeling.
After the necessary medical procedures are complete, after I’ve been cleaned up and moved to a recovery bed, after Polina has been measured and swaddled and returned to us, Aleksei holds her for the first time.
“Polina,” he whispers as he gazes at her scrunched-up features. “ Ya vsegda budu o tebé zabótit’sya, malyshka. I will take care of you always, my little love.” His large hands cradle her tiny body with such care that it makes my throat tighten.
When he places her back in my arms, his fingers brush my cheek in a touch so tender it brings fresh tears to my eyes.
“Thank you,” he says simply. “For her.”
I sink back into the downy pillows, feeling exhaustion settling in. “Thank you for staying.” I exhale a long breath.
“Where else would I be but by your side, zaychik? ” he says.
“I don’t know… I’m sure you have important things to do,” I say feebly.
“Nothing as important as this,” he responds.
The three of us remain like this as evening deepens into night. Aleksei pulls a chair close to my bed, one hand resting lightly on my arm, the other occasionally reaching to adjust Polina’s blanket or touch her tiny fingers.
Guards stand outside our door. Nurses come and go quietly. The city glitters beyond the windows. But in this room, time seems suspended. We exist in a bubble of strange peace, this new family formed from such complicated beginnings.
As exhaustion pulls me toward sleep, I find myself watching Aleksei’s face as he gazes at our daughter. The hardness is gone, replaced by something I’ve glimpsed only in rare, unguarded moments. Something that looks remarkably like love.
Could Hannah be wrong about him? Not about what he did— the evidence seems clear enough— but about who he is?
Or is this tenderness reserved only for his blood? For Polina, for Bobik, perhaps for Diana? A selective humanity that doesn’t extend to those who cross him?
I don’t have answers. Not yet. But as I drift toward sleep, Polina secure in my arms and Aleksei keeping watch over us both, I allow myself to wonder if there’s more to this story than I know.
For tonight, in this room, with our daughter between us, I’ll let myself pretend we’re just a normal family. Tomorrow will bring decisions, questions, the weight of the past.
But tonight belongs to Polina.
To her new life, even as old wounds continue to bleed beneath the surface.