Chapter Twenty-Two
Aleksei
I’ve given her space.
Time to heal.
Time to adjust to motherhood.
Time to overcome whatever the fuck is causing this wall between us.
My patience is running out.
A week since our daughter’s birth, and Stella has barely spoken ten words to me. She’s attentive with Polina— a natural mother despite her inexperience— but turns to stone whenever I enter the room. The warmth I once saw in her eyes has vanished, replaced by something I can’t decipher.
Not fear. Not exactly anger. Something much worse— indifference.
I stand outside her door in the Left Wing, listening for any sound of distress.
It’s nearly nine in the evening, Polina’s feeding time.
Stella keeps to a rigid schedule, refusing help from the nurses I’ve hired.
Insisting on doing everything herself until exhaustion has hollowed her cheeks and darkened the skin beneath her eyes.
I knock softly, not wanting to wake Polina if she’s finally sleeping.
“Yes?” Stella’s voice comes muffled through the wood.
I open the door to find her sitting in the armchair by the window, hair piled messily on top of her head, wearing a maternity shirt that hangs loose on her frame. Dark circles shadow her eyes. She looks beautiful and fragile and utterly exhausted.
“Where’s Polina?” I ask, noticing the empty bassinet.
“Asleep. At last.” She gestures vaguely toward the nursery door. “What do you want?”
The bluntness of the question stings, though I keep my expression neutral. “You need rest.”
She laughs without humor. “Tell that to your daughter.”
“I’ve arranged someone for the night,” I say, moving further into the room. “A night nurse. Experienced with newborns. You can pump some milk, and she can handle the feedings.”
Stella stiffens immediately. “I don’t want a stranger with Polina.”
“She’s not a stranger to me. She worked for a family I trust.” I don’t mention that this “family” is that of a high-ranking government official who has been on my payroll for years. “You need sleep, Stella. Uninterrupted sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” I move closer, stopping when I see her tense. “You’ve lost weight. You barely eat. You don’t sleep except when Polina does.” I soften my tone. “Let someone help. Just for tonight.”
She looks toward the nursery, maternal instinct warring with obvious exhaustion. “What if she gets hungry?”
“I’m sure you can pump enough for a couple of feedings. If she needs more, the nurse will wake you.” I press my advantage. “One night, Stella. Six straight hours of sleep.”
The hesitation in her eyes tells me I’m winning. “She won’t take her from the room?”
“No. She’ll stay right here. You can check on them whenever you want.”
Stella runs a hand over her face, fatigue finally overcoming resistance. “Fine. One night.”
Victory, small as it is. I pull out my phone and send a text to the nurse waiting downstairs.
“She’ll be up in ten minutes. You can show her Polina’s routine.”
Stella nods, already looking relieved despite her reluctance. “Thank you,” she says stiffly, the words clearly difficult.
I take a chance. “When you’ve handed her over to the nurse… come to my room. I want you to stay with me tonight.”
Her head snaps up, eyes suddenly alert, wary. Why does she look at me that way these days? “What?”
“Not for sex,” I clarify, noting how her body has tensed again. “I know your body is still healing. Just… to talk. To be together without a crying infant between us.”
“Are you saying you have a problem with Polina?” Her tone is sharp.
“Of course not. She is my life.” As I say it, I realize, yet again, how true that is. “But that shouldn’t mean we can’t spend time together without her.”
The silence stretches long enough that I think she’ll refuse. Finally, she asks, “Why?”
Because I miss you.
Because I don’t understand what’s happened between us.
Because the distance is driving me fucking insane.
“Because we’re parents now,” I say instead. “We should at least be able to have a conversation.”
She studies me, searching for some hidden agenda. Finding none, she nods once. “After I’ve shown the nurse everything.”
“I’ll be waiting.” I turn to leave, pausing at the door. “Wear something comfortable. This isn’t a formal invitation.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in her posture— a slight relaxation. “Okay.”
I close the door behind me, exhaling slowly. Not exactly enthusiasm, but it’s the first time she’s agreed to be alone with me since Polina’s birth. Progress, however small.
Back in my wing of the manor, I make arrangements. Champagne on ice— alcoholic for me, non-alcoholic for her since she’s breastfeeding. Two glasses. Dim lighting. Not seduction, but not clinical either. A middle ground where we might find our way back to something resembling normal.
Whatever the fuck “normal” means for a Bratva Pakhan and the mother of his child.
I shower and change into comfortable clothes— dark lounge pants and a black sweater.
Casual but not sloppy. I check the security feed on my phone, watching as the nurse arrives at Stella’s room.
Stella greets her, expression guarded but polite.
They disappear into the nursery, presumably for instructions about Polina.
Twenty minutes later, there’s a soft knock at my door.
“Come in,” I call, setting aside my phone.
Stella enters hesitantly, hovering near the doorway as if unsure of her welcome. She’s changed into leggings and a loose sweater that slips off one shoulder. Her hair falls in waves around her face, freshly brushed. She’s applied a touch of something to her lips.
The effort, small as it is, gives me hope.
“You came,” I say, moving toward her.
“I said I would.” Her breath catches as I lean in and graze my lips over hers. It’s featherlight, barely a fleeting touch, but it’s enough to make my balls pull tight. She stands motionless, not responding but not pulling away either. “You’re beautiful,” I tell her.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, her eyes scan the room, taking in the champagne, the dimmed lights. “This looks… intimate.”
“It’s a celebration,” I explain, gesturing to the bottle. “For Polina. For us surviving a week of parenthood.” I pour two glasses, offering her the non-alcoholic version. “Don’t worry— yours won’t affect your milk.”
She accepts the glass, keeping a careful distance between our fingers. “Thank you for arranging the nurse. I didn’t realize how tired I was until someone else took over.”
“You push yourself too hard.” I indicate the seating area by the windows. “Sit. Relax.”
She chooses the armchair rather than joining me on the sofa. Another small rejection, but I let it pass. One battle at a time.
“How is Polina?” I ask, though I know the answer; I spend as much time as possible with her daily. As much time as I can fit in around the ice princess that Stella has become.
“Perfect.” For the first time, genuine warmth enters her voice. “She gained another four ounces. The doctor says she’s developing exactly as she should.”
“She has your determination.” I sip my champagne, watching Stella over the rim of my glass. Even exhausted, with her body still recovering from childbirth, she’s lovely. The soft curve of her cheek. The fullness of her lips. The new roundness of her breasts, heavy with milk for our daughter.
“She has your eyes,” Stella says, surprising me with the voluntary observation. “And your temper.”
I smile despite myself. “Poor child.”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips before vanishing. Progress.
We sit in silence for a moment, the space between us filled with unspoken words. I search for neutral topics, anything to keep this fragile connection alive.
“Diana wants to visit you again tomorrow,” I offer. “To see Polina.”
Stella nods. “That would be nice. She’s been very kind.”
“She’s excited to be an aunt.” I lean forward slightly. “And Bobik is curious about his sister. You must let us know when he can meet her.”
At the mention of my son, something flickers across Stella’s face— an emotion I can’t identify before it’s gone. “Soon. Of course. They’re siblings.”
“I’ll arrange it,” I say, taking control of the matter. I don’t know why Stella has been so reluctant for us to integrate as a family. Overprotective, perhaps. That’s something I can understand.
The silence returns, heavier now. She sips her champagne, eyes fixed on the windows behind me, looking at everything except my face. Her free hand plucks at a loose thread on her leggings. I want to reach out and still it.
“Stella.” I set my glass down. “What’s happening between us?”
She stiffens. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” I keep my voice level despite my frustration. “Since our daughter’s birth, you’ve barely looked at me. Barely spoken to me. It’s like living with a ghost.”
“I’m just tired.” The excuse sounds hollow.
“Bullshit.” Too sharp. I moderate my tone. “You were tired before, after the accident. Exhausted, even. But not like this. Not cold.”
Her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass. “I’m not cold.”
“Then what would you call it?”
She doesn’t answer, just takes another sip of champagne, eyes still avoiding mine.
“Did I do something?” I press, needing to understand. “Say something? Is it postpartum depression? Dr. Malhotra mentioned it could—”
“It’s not depression,” she cuts me off, voice suddenly firm.
“Then what? Because this,” I gesture between us, “this silence is worse than fighting. At least with fighting, I’d know what the problem was.” Problems are things that I can deal with. This… this is simply nothing.
She finally meets my eyes, something resolute settling over her features. Setting her glass down, she straightens in her chair.
“The problem,” she says slowly, “is that I love you.”
Bozhe moy!
I stare at her like a dumbass. The words should please me. Instead, they land like a warning shot. “How is that a problem?”
“Because…” She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders as if preparing for battle. “Because I shouldn’t love you. Not after what you did.”
Blyad.
Could she mean…?
“What exactly do you think I did?” I ask carefully.
She holds my gaze, unflinching now that she’s found her courage. The next words come with terrible clarity.
“Is it true that you ordered my father’s death?”
The champagne glass freezes halfway to my lips. My blood turns to ice in my veins.
Fuck .
Shit.
Fuck!
How? How could she know? Who told her?
“Who told you that?” I keep my voice steady, though inside I’m calculating every possibility, every betrayal that could have led to this moment. Someone close to me has talked. Someone will pay.
“Does it matter?” Her eyes are locked with mine, unflinching, demanding truth where I’ve only ever offered shadows. The green of her irises seems darker now, hardened by suspicion. “I want to know if it’s true. Did you have my father killed, Aleksei?”
The pieces suddenly align— her coldness, her withdrawal, her reluctance to let me touch her. Since just before our daughter was born, she’s known. Or suspected.
The truth I’ve hidden. The past I thought I’d buried. It all makes sense now.
The champagne in my hand trembles slightly, the only outward sign of the shock coursing through me. Stella watches, her eyes never leaving my face, searching for confirmation she’s already found in my reaction.
The silence between us stretches, filled with the weight of her accusation and the consequences of my answer.
Whatever I say next will change everything.
Unless it won’t.