Chapter Twenty-One
Stella
The gentle tug of Polina’s mouth against my breast anchors me to this moment, to this room, to this impossible new reality.
Her tiny fist rests against my skin, curled like a seashell, while her dark lashes flutter with each pull of milk.
I trace the perfect curve of her ear with my fingertip, marveling at how someone so small can contain my entire world.
Three days old, and she’s already mastered the art of destroying and rebuilding me with each breath.
The nursery glows with amber light from the Tiffany lamp Aleksei insisted on importing from New York.
Everything in this room speaks of his meticulous preparation— the hand-carved mahogany crib with its silk bedding, the cashmere blankets folded in precise squares, the antique rocking chair where I now sit, worn smooth by generations of mothers before me.
A room designed for a princess, because that’s what Polina is to him.
To us.
My body aches in places I never knew could hurt, still recovering from becoming a mother. My emotions swing wildly between extremes— fierce love for Polina, bone-deep exhaustion, unexpected tears that come without warning.
“Baby blues, my dear. Normal… all normal,” the midwife had said. “It’s your hormones messing with you. They’ll settle.”
She didn’t mention how these hormones would sharpen every other feeling until they cut like glass. My grief for my parents. My rage toward Aleksei. My confusion about what comes next.
I shift Polina to my other breast, wincing at the tenderness. She latches on with surprising strength, her need uncomplicated and pure. I envy her that simplicity. Feed me. Hold me. Love me. No moral quandaries, no impossible choices.
“That’s right, little bird,” I whisper, stroking the dark fuzz on her head. “Mama’s got you.”
Mama. The word still feels foreign on my tongue. My own mother has only been gone months, her face still clear in my memory. Would she recognize me now, milk-stained and exhausted, cradling her granddaughter in the home of the man who killed the man she loved?
The irony doesn’t escape me. The greatest joy of my life born from connection to my greatest sorrow.
How strange that my heart can hold such contradictory truths— that I can love so fiercely the child of someone who caused me such pain.
In her innocent face, I see nothing of the darkness that brought us together, only possibility and light.
Sometimes when I look at her, I wonder if this is the universe’s way of balancing accounts, offering sweetness from bitterness, life from death.
A floorboard creaks outside the nursery door. I don’t need to look up to know who stands there. My body has developed a sixth sense for his presence— a prickling awareness that registers his proximity before my conscious mind can catch up.
Aleksei enters quietly, his large frame somehow diminished in this soft, feminine space. His eyes find us immediately, his expression transforming from the hard mask he shows the world to something vulnerable and raw.
“How are my girls doing?” he asks, voice gentled to avoid startling Polina.
I glance up briefly, then return my attention to our daughter. “Good.” It’s impossible to disguise the ice in my voice, but he doesn’t react.
He moves closer, kneeling beside the rocking chair with a grace that belies his size. The position brings him level with Polina, his face inches from where she nurses. He reaches out, one finger gently stroking her cheek with a tenderness that makes me swallow hard.
“She’s perfect, isn’t she?” he murmurs. “Just like her mother.”
I stiffen involuntarily, the compliment landing like a stone in still water.
Murderer!
Monster!
I want to scream the words, but I don’t, pinching my lips together instead.
He notices my reaction— Aleksei notices everything— and sighs, a soft exhale of frustration. “Is there anything I can do? A blanket for her? Maybe something for you to eat?”
I shake my head, focusing on Polina’s rhythmic suckling, the warm weight of her against my chest. Safer territory than meeting his eyes.
He exhales another breath, and I can practically feel the frustration radiating from him. Aleksei Tarasov is not a tolerant man. I can feel the toll this is taking on him. I don’t care, though. This isn’t about making him feel comfortable.
“I don’t understand what’s upsetting you, Stella.” His voice holds genuine confusion, as if my distance is a puzzle he can’t solve. “If you won’t speak, how can I help?”
“There’s nothing,” I tell him.
It’s a lie. There is so much I could say. Except I can’t. Not without screaming abuse and throwing things at him.
“You’re angry with me,” he says. “Why?”
Perhaps because you had my father murdered?
The accusation burns in my throat, unspoken. Instead, I adjust Polina slightly, using the movement as an excuse to turn away from him.
“I’m not angry,” I say. Which is true, because what I’m feeling goes beyond mere anger into something raw and rabid that defies description. So, I keep my mouth shut because it’s safer that way. Safer for all of us.
The silence descends, heavy with all I won’t say. All he doesn’t know I know. I can feel his patience wearing thin, the controlled breathing that signals his frustration.
“This has to stop, Stella,” he says finally. “We can’t go on like this. We have a baby. We are family.” His voice softens on the last word. “Talk to me.”
Family.
The word twists in my chest. My family is dead. The family Aleksei offers is built on their graves.
Yet when I look at Polina, at her tiny fingers and rosebud mouth, the word feels right. She is my family. Undeniably. Completely.
And she is his.
This is the impossible equation I can’t solve: how to hate the father but love the daughter so completely? How to protect her from the truth without living a lie?
Aleksei watches me, waiting for a response I can’t give. Not yet. Maybe not ever. My jaw tightens with the effort of holding back words that would shatter this fragile peace we’ve built around Polina.
He stares at me for what feels like an eternity, then stands, his movement fluid despite the tension radiating from his shoulders. I feel his gaze like a physical weight, assessing, calculating.
“I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk, zaychik ,” he says finally, the Russian endearment a reminder of intimacies we once shared.
As he leaves, he doesn’t fully close the door— a symbolic gesture that matches his words. An opening left for when I’m ready.
I look down at our daughter, now milk-drunk and drowsy against my breast. Her tiny lips part in a sigh of contentment, oblivious to the massive rift between her parents. She knows only that she is warm, fed, loved.
Loved by both of us, without reservation.
That’s the cruelest truth of all. Each time Aleksei touches Polina with such tenderness, I wonder how those hands can truly be capable of such love. The evidence is before me— his gentleness with her, his fierce protectiveness, the way his voice softens when he speaks her name.
I lift Polina to my shoulder, patting her back gently until she releases a surprisingly loud burp for someone so tiny.
“Oh, my goodness, baby girl,” I coo at her, feeling a rare smile form.
The familiar action centers me, reminding me that whatever else is happening, I am, first and foremost, her mother. My decisions now affect her more than me.
What terrifies me most isn’t the thought of confronting Aleksei about my parents, but the possibility that I might forgive him for Polina’s sake. That I might choose this new family over justice for my old one.
The nursery feels both sanctuary and prison as I settle deeper into the rocking chair, cradling Polina against my chest. Her breathing slows as she drifts toward sleep, her complete trust in me both a gift and a burden.
“What am I supposed to do?” I whisper to her, the question hanging unanswered in the soft lamplight.
Outside the partially open door, I hear Aleksei’s footsteps pause, then continue down the hallway. Giving me space, but not forever. Soon, I’ll have to face him. Face the truth. Face myself.
For now, I hold our daughter close, memorizing the weight of her in my arms, the scent of her skin, the perfect curve of her cheek. In these quiet moments with Polina, the path forward seems almost clear: protect her. Love her. Be worthy of her.
But when I close my eyes, I see my father’s face. My mother’s grief. And the man who caused both now calls me family.
How long can I live in this limbo between hatred and love? Between past and future? Between the family I lost and the one I’ve found?
Polina sighs in her sleep, her tiny hand splayed against my collarbone. For her sake, I need to find answers. For her sake, I need to discover the whole truth.
Not just what Aleksei did, but why.