Chapter 9 #4
Now history was repeating itself.
Except this time...
I had a choice.
Or at least the illusion of one.
I looked down at my stomach again.
Two red lines.
Proof that something small and fragile was already growing inside me.
Proof that Ruslan’s legacy wasn’t confined to prison walls.
Proof that no matter how much I tried to separate myself from him —
Part of him would always remain inside me.
I pressed my forehead against my knees.
I refuse to let fear dictate the outcome.
This time... I will protect it.
I will carry it.
I will bring this child into the world alive and healthy — no matter what it costs me.
The past had traumatized me so deeply that somewhere along the way, my brain had almost erased the possibility that pregnancy could result in a living baby.
My first experience had ended in blood.
Silence.
Loss.
It had felt like pregnancy equaled death.
But it didn’t.
It couldn’t.
Not every story ended the same way.
Not every body betrayed itself.
Not every outcome was written in tragedy.
I forced myself to stand — legs still shaky, mind racing — and stumbled back into the bedroom.
The room felt too quiet.
Too big.
Too full of memories I didn’t want to revisit.
I climbed onto the bed and collapsed onto the mattress, phone still clutched tightly in my hand like a lifeline.
My fingers moved quickly.
I dialed Petros.
He answered almost immediately.
“Ma’am?”
His voice was calm — already alert.
“Can you come up?” I asked, trying to steady my breathing. “I... I have something to tell you.”
A brief pause.
“On my way.”
The call ended.
My heart pounded harder.
The knock came minutes later — soft but deliberate.
“Ma’am, it’s Petros.”
“Come in.”
The door opened gently.
Petros stepped inside.
He was still dressed in his dark suit — tailored, structured — posture straight, movements controlled.
But his eyes betrayed something softer.
Concern.
He always observed first.
He assessed the situation before speaking.
I sat up slowly and pulled the duvet over my lap — not out of shame, but instinctively protective.
I gestured toward the armchair beside the bed.
“Sit.”
He complied immediately.
Graceful.
Attentive.
He folded his hands loosely in front of him and looked at me carefully.
“You look very worried, Elena.”
I met his gaze directly.
“I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
The room shifted.
The words didn’t echo loudly — but they changed the atmosphere instantly.
Petros didn’t react dramatically.
No shock. No widened eyes.
No visible surprise.
He simply absorbed it.
Processed it.
Then waited.
“Is it another man’s child?” he asked calmly.
His tone wasn’t accusatory.
It was strategic.
“It’s Ruslan’s,” I replied without hesitation.
Then I added quietly:
“I don’t know whether to tell him this time.”
Petros exhaled slowly through his nose — thoughtful.
He leaned back slightly in the chair.
“I want you to understand something first.”
His voice softened but remained firm.
“My loyalty lies with Ruslan.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
“But,” he continued carefully, “I am very good at keeping secrets.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“If you decide you do not want him to know about this child, I will not tell him.”
His tone deepened.
“Ever.”
The weight of that promise was enormous.
It meant protection.
It meant silence.
It meant control over information.
I swallowed. “I do want him to know.”
Petros’s brow lifted slightly — curious.
“He is in prison. Life sentence.”
My fingers tightened unconsciously around the fabric of the duvet.
“It’s only fair he knows I’m carrying his child.”
I paused.
“But I don’t care if he wants anything to do with it.”
My jaw set firmly.
“I’m having this baby.”
The declaration wasn’t about him.
It wasn’t about reconciliation.
It wasn’t about leverage.
It was about ownership over my body and my choice.
Petros nodded once — decisive. “Then I will have the message relayed to him.”
His expression turned practical again.
“Discreetly.”
He began to stand.
“Wait.”
My voice stopped him.
He paused mid-rise — watching me carefully.
I hesitated.
The vulnerability rushed up before I could suppress it.
“I’m scared.”
The words came out smaller than I expected.
Petros slowly lowered himself back into the chair.
His gaze softened instantly. “Of what, ma’am?”
I pressed my palm against my stomach.
The gesture was instinctive.
Protective. Terrified.
“Of losing this one too.”
My voice cracked slightly.
“Of history repeating itself.”
My throat tightened.
“Of not being strong enough to protect it from everything that’s coming.”
War. Power struggles. Enemies.
Prison politics.
Ruslan’s world wasn’t safe — even from behind bars.
Petros watched me quietly.
He didn’t interrupt.
He let the fear sit in the room.
Then he spoke — steady and grounded.
“You are stronger than you know.”
His tone wasn’t flattery. It was an observation.
“And this child will have you as a mother.”
He tilted his head slightly. “That is more than enough.”
His words hit deeper than I expected.
Tears gathered in my eyes again.
Not from weakness.
From relief.
From someone acknowledging my fear without dismissing it.
“Thank you, Petros.”
He nodded — respectful.
“Anything you need — day or night — you call me.”
His posture straightened again.
“Whatever resources are required. I will handle it.”
He meant it.
Not as loyalty to Ruslan. But as protection for me.
Petros leaned forward slightly as he spoke — elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together loosely but deliberately.
His posture shifted from advisor to protector.
“I will get you the best doctors money can buy.”
There was no exaggeration in his tone.
No empty reassurance.
“Obstetricians. Maternal-fetal specialists. High-risk pregnancy experts. Nutritionists. Anyone required to monitor this pregnancy properly.”
He looked directly at me.
“They will come here if necessary. Or you will go to them — escorted and protected.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“I will make sure this baby is monitored like royalty.”
He ticked off details methodically.
“Ultrasounds scheduled regularly. Bloodwork tracked weekly. Prenatal vitamins imported if we have to fly them in from Switzerland. Specialist consultations on standby.”
His eyes softened — just barely.
“You will not go through this alone.”
A beat. “And this child will be born strong and healthy.”
The certainty in his voice wasn’t arrogance.
It was commitment.
“I give you my word.”
Petros didn’t make promises lightly.
He made decisions and executed them.
So when he gave his word like that — it meant protection had already begun forming around me and the life growing inside me.
My throat tightened.
Tears gathered again — not from fear now, but gratitude.
“Thank you, Petros.”
My voice wavered slightly.
He gave a single respectful dip of his head.
“You’re welcome.”
His gaze lingered for a moment longer — assessing my emotional state.
Then he slowly stood.
His joints creaked faintly — the subtle sound of years spent in violent environments and high-pressure loyalty.
He straightened his suit jacket with automatic precision.
Habit.
“Remember,” he added quietly, “If the fear becomes overwhelming — if your mind starts creating worst-case scenarios — call me.”
He gestured lightly.
“If you need food arranged. Rest enforced. A doctor brought in at midnight. Or simply someone to sit beside you while anxiety speaks too loudly.”
A faint pause.
“I will handle it.”
He turned toward the door.
Walked with steady confidence.
Even age hadn’t diminished his presence.
He paused with his hand resting on the knob and glanced back at me one more time.
“Rest now.”
His voice softened again.
“You’re carrying more than a child.”
His expression shifted — something almost reverent flickering across his face.
“You’re carrying hope.”
He held my gaze deliberately.
“Don’t forget that.”
Then he opened the door and stepped out.
The soft click as it closed behind him echoed through the room.
Silence returned.
But it wasn’t empty.
It wasn’t suffocating.
It felt... charged.
I exhaled slowly — lungs releasing tension I hadn’t realized I was holding.
I pushed myself back fully onto the bed.
The duvet felt cool against my skin.
Comforting.
The room smelled faintly of lavender from the diffuser sitting on the dresser.
I turned onto my back and let my hands drift downward instinctively.
They rested over my lower abdomen.
My palms were open.
Fingers splayed.
As if I could physically feel the life developing beneath my skin.
I began rubbing slow circles.
Gentle. Protective.
Instinct guided the motion — not thought.
“Please,” I whispered into the quiet room.
My voice was soft.
“Let me have this one.”
My fingers pressed slightly deeper.
“Let me carry you to term.”
A tear slipped free and rolled across my temple into my hair.
“Let me hold you.”
My throat tightened.
“Let me name you.”
My breath trembled.
“Let me love you out loud this time.”
The first pregnancy had been stolen from me.
Nine months of fear.
Violence. Isolation. Prison walls.
Hunger. Stress.
And then —
Blood on a cold mattress.
A nurse wrapping my stillborn son in a stained towel like he was disposable.
Like his existence was an inconvenience.
I had screamed then.
But no sound had come out.
My voice had already been crushed from pain.
I had clawed at the sheets until my fingernails broke.
Until my hands bled.
Until exhaustion forced silence.
That memory lived inside my body.
It had shaped how I saw pregnancy.
It had made me associate motherhood with loss.
Not joy.
Not celebration.
But this time —
This time was different.
I wasn’t powerless.
I had resources. Medical support.
Security. Protection.
A house guarded by men who followed orders.
My hand pressed a little firmer against my stomach.
Like I was grounding myself.
Like I was protecting it from invisible threats.
“You’re staying,” I whispered again.
My voice carried determination now — not just fear.
“You hear me?”
“You’re staying.”
The room remained silent.
The mansion outside continued functioning.
Power moved quietly through hallways.
But inside this room —
For the first time in years —
Silence didn’t feel like punishment.
It didn’t feel like isolation.
It felt like possibility.
And I clung to that possibility with everything I had.