23. Ana
ANA
Mila is asleep in her room, her head turned into the pillow, hair across her face, her mouth open a little so I can see her teeth. Dominik sits on the edge of the bed and brushes her hair back from her eyes. He does it carefully, like it’s nothing.
I stand in the doorway with my hand on the frame and watch them, my fingers tightening before I realize it.
I took something from him that should have been his. I didn’t ask. I didn’t explain. I decided, packed, and left, knowing exactly what kind of man Dominik is and what he would do once he realized I was gone. He would come for us.
He’d come after us. He’d keep looking until he found us.
I wasn’t careless when I ran, but I also didn’t have a perfect plan.
I figured things out as I went. I watched people.
I paid attention to routines. I cut ties one by one, even the ones that hurt, and I stayed gone.
I raised Mila with my own money, on my own time, and I held on to the belief that keeping her out of reach was the right thing to do.
Dominik was always in my head, more than I wanted him to be. Not as comfort, and not as longing, but as something fixed.
Every time I had to make a choice, I measured it against what he would call a risk, where he’d draw the line, and what he would never let slide. Even when I chose differently, I knew exactly what he would’ve said.
It wore me down. I slept light. I checked the street twice before stepping out. I stayed alert in rooms that never felt familiar.
Some nights, I wondered if I had only traded one kind of danger for another, the kind that moved slower and stayed out of sight. I didn’t let myself sit with that for long.
Readiness didn’t happen by accident. I built it the only way I could, in pieces, while staying hard to track. My body learned to move without hesitation, to keep my balance with weight in my arms and to use force only to make room to leave.
She learned too. Stillness meant stop. A hand on her shoulder meant silence. Face tucked into my neck meant I was handling something and she wasn’t to look. We practiced until it stopped feeling like practice. It became routine, as normal as brushing her teeth or tying her shoes.
Bravery was never the goal. Readiness was, and that’s what matters when things go bad.
So when an investment under Markov’s name finally came due and they said I had to show up in person to claim it, I went.
That money was Mila’s. It was mine to secure.
It meant stability, better schools, and fewer nights with me checking doors and windows.
I told myself I could get in, sign, take what was ours, and get out.
I went back to Saint Petersburg.
It didn’t hit me right away. It hit later. Money leaves a trail, even when people forget. The second I walked into that bank, I stepped into a system I should’ve known was still there. The cameras caught me. The account moved.
“Dormant” didn’t mean gone. It meant untouched.
By the time I reached the counter, the system had already marked the movement. An alert moved through channels that never sleep.
Locate her.
Secure the child.
Resolve the file.
What I didn’t understand then was that the same thing that exposed me also gave us a little cover. The money had been tied to his watch long before I touched it. If it moved, he’d know before the others did.
I thought walking into that bank was a mistake. Maybe it was. But hiding hadn’t fixed anything either. The debt was still there. The ledger was still there. And as long as it stayed there, Mila and I were never going to be safe.
Seeing him here with Mila changes something I’ve avoided for years.
The way he bends toward her, shoulders tight, attention fixed, makes it impossible to keep pretending.
I told myself I was running from danger, but I was also running toward a life that only worked if I stayed alone and kept moving.
Standing here with him and Mila, I feel how tired I am of carrying everything by myself.
I don’t want to do it alone anymore. Mila needs her father.
Dominik adjusts Mila’s blanket once, then again, and rests his fingers lightly at the base of her throat until her breathing steadies into a rhythm he seems to trust. He doesn’t look at me while he does it.
I stand in the doorway and watch, knowing this moment matters more than the clinic did, more than the blood, more than the results folded into envelopes that now sit on the kitchen table. This is the first time he has checked her like this, knowing what he knows.
When he steps back, he pulls the door almost shut but leaves it a little open, so if Mila wakes or needs us, she can find us without having to push the door. Then he walks past me without a word. My body still goes tight.
With Markov, this was how it started before the punishment came.
I know what I did. I kept Mila from him. I decided what he was allowed to know and when. I made calls that touched his reach and his safety, and in my world, that always comes back to you. You pay for it one way or another.
So I wait for the moment he names it. Something cutting. A question. A shift in tone. Something that tells me where I stand now.
None comes. Instead, he moves through the house.
He locks the front door, then checks it again.
He tests the back latch and reinforces it with the bar we installed but never used.
He moves the chair that sits too close to the window and adjusts the curtain so the light from outside no longer cuts through the room.
He does all of this without hurry and without explanation.
He doesn’t question me. He doesn’t ask me to explain, and he doesn’t ask for an apology. He doesn’t take anything from me. He just moves through the house, locking doors, checking sightlines, shifting things so less can be seen from outside.
Every choice he makes stays where he puts it. The house starts to feel different around us, and I understand this is his answer.
He isn’t standing here judging me. He’s taking stock and moving us forward.
When he’s done, he comes into the kitchen and picks up the clinic papers.
He looks through them once, not reading so much as checking that nothing’s missing, then slides them back into the folder and sets it by the door where he keeps keys and documents.
He still doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t ask anything.
The kettle clicks off. I realize I turned it on earlier and forgot about it. The shift happens without a word, and that’s what gets to me. He’s already deciding what happens next. If there’s a price for any of this, he’ll decide how we pay it.
I pour water into two cups and set one near him, like I always do. He doesn’t touch it. The room feels too tight, and I crack first.
“Are you going to say something to me?” I ask, and I regret it the second it comes out.
“You don’t get to decide what I know by leaving things out anymore,” he says. His voice stays even.
He doesn’t say it like he’s arguing. He says it once, and I know he means it.
I nod, because I can’t argue with him and stay honest.
“I’m not staying in the dark while you decide what I can handle,” he says. “Not about this. Not about her.”
I swallow. My throat goes tight, but my voice holds.
“I know.”
“You’re not doing this alone anymore,” he says. “That part is over.”
I don’t answer right away. I know when to stay quiet and listen. He isn’t blowing up. He’s telling me how this works now, and once he says it, he doesn’t take it back.
“I handle movement,” he says. “Timing. Calls. Who gets close and who doesn’t. If somebody watches, I decide how we answer it. If somebody starts testing us, I decide when it becomes a problem.”
“And me?” I ask.
“You know what’s going on,” he says. “You stay in it. You don’t carry it alone.”
Something in my chest shifts, slow and hard.
This isn’t forgiveness. He isn’t pretending none of it happened. He’s taking what I’ve been carrying by myself and splitting it up his way.
Then I see what I’d been waiting for. Not his anger or punishment. Not anything on what I did. He’s telling me what happens next. Who moves. Who decides. Where the lines are now.
There’s no stepping around it anymore. Whatever comes for me from here, it comes for him too.
“What do I stop doing?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. He watches me.
“Stop believing I’m here just to keep you safe,” he says. “That’s not it.”
I wait.
“I’m here for you,” he continues. “And for Mila. That goes beyond protection.”
The room feels smaller after that.
“I don’t have another place to stand,” he says. “This is it.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t dress it up. He says it like a fact that’s already settled, and I understand what he’s doing.
“I’m here because she’s mine,” he says. “And once a child is involved, there’s no partial commitment. There’s no exit you pretend is clean.”
I sit down at the table because my legs feel weak. I can’t keep this in anymore.
“I didn’t leave to escape you,” I say. The words come out steady because I’ve had years to rehearse them.
“I left to keep you out of it. I couldn’t stay in that life, not with a child coming.
I thought I could give Mila something different.
Something normal.” My throat tightens, but I finish it anyway.
He doesn’t react.
“I knew what being close to me would do to you,” I continue. “I knew how the council reads attachment. I knew a child would make you visible in ways you couldn’t control.”
“You thought it would make me reckless,” he says, his gaze steady.
“Yes,” I say. “Predictable. Easier to box in.”
The proof is already in front of him.
Mila needed a doctor. I knew that, and I took her in. Mila got pulled into it, and he moved exactly the way I knew he would. He stepped forward, signed what they gave him, and made himself part of the file.
I didn’t think I could hide it forever. I thought I could keep her safe long enough to choose the moment, and I was wrong.
His eyes drop to my hand, to the ring catching the light.
“And you wanted me anyway.”