Epilogue
Two years later
Natalya
If someone had shown me a glimpse of my current life a few years ago, I wouldn’t have believed it. I just never imagined myself so overwhelmingly in love.
Two years later and I still live in the apartment two floors above the flower shop, the same creaky wooden floors and second floor full of orchids…but instead of waking up alone, I wake up next to Viktor Balshov. My husband. My home.
We’ve been married just under a year, and in that time Andrei finally moved out—something he claimed he did to “give us space,” though Viktor likes to tease that he simply couldn’t handle hearing us at night.
Andrei denies it. But he also turns pink every time the topic comes up, so that tells its own story.
He still visits constantly. Usually unannounced. Usually with some ridiculous excuse. And I love it.
The whole family is closer now. I’m closer now.
Especially to Mikhail.
Our friendship surprised me. He’s nothing like Viktor—loud, charismatic, dramatic, always in motion—but watching them together, especially now as I wander through his Los Angeles apartment looking for my husband, it always makes sense.
I find them on the balcony, exactly where I knew they’d be.
Viktor is sitting in one of the lounge chairs, a glass of whiskey resting loosely in his hand. He’s relaxed in that quiet way he gets only around people he trusts completely. Mikhail is leaning on the railing beside him, grinning like he owns the entire city spread out below them.
There is a lifetime of understanding in every look they share, the kind only brothers can have. Even if only half-brother’s.
I pause at the doorway for a moment, smiling to myself. This—a quiet evening with shared laughter and drinks—is Viktor’s way of celebrating Mikhail’s latest award. His record label just won something huge, something that will keep him flying between LA and New York for weeks.
I’m proud of him. Viktor is too, even if he expresses it in grunts and half-smirks.
My phone buzzes.
I check it and immediately laugh under my breath.
It’s a picture from my sister-in-law, Mireille, of Vanda and her new puppy, Dasha, both asleep on the floor of Dmitri and Mireille’s penthouse. Vanda has one leg thrown over the little furball like she’s claiming her.
Another buzz—a text this time:
Mireille:
Your girl is living her best grandma life. Dasha won’t stop following her around.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing too loudly.
Vanda has been thriving since Dasha came into the family.
She’s more playful, more energetic, more curious.
And every time I floated the idea of getting a second dog, Viktor would wrap an arm around my waist, murmur something like, “Vanda deserves peace in her old age,” and change the subject.
I know he’s right, but that doesn’t curb the temptation.
The ‘peace and quiet’ won’t last for much longer now, anyway…
My hand drifts down to my stomach. It’s still very flat—no visible changes. Not yet. But everything feels different to me.
The world might as well have changed its axis the moment I found out. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell him ever since, but no moment ever seemed right.
Maybe tonight, when it’s just the two of us, I’ll tell him then.
I lift my eyes from my phone and catch Viktor watching me in that focused, intent way of his that never fails to get my heart doing cartwheels, like he can see into my very soul.
He does that sometimes—reads me too well. Sees too deeply. And with the hormones making every emotion swell triple its size, it’s harder to school my expression.
I take a breath, open the balcony door, and ask lightly, “Are you two ready for dinner?”
Viktor stands immediately. “Yes.”
Mikhail drains the rest of his drink. “You both will have to excuse me; I need to head out. Big party tonight. Lots of fake people to charm.”
I laugh. “Good luck.”
“Oh no,” he says cheerfully, grabbing his jacket, “it’s them who need luck.”
He kisses my cheek, slaps Viktor’s shoulder, and disappears inside, humming under his breath.
The apartment falls quiet again.
Viktor steps behind me, one hand settling at the small of my back, warm and grounding. Protective in that effortless way of his.
“Come,” he murmurs.
He guides me toward the dining room, but the closer we get to the table, the more my nerves grow. My stomach is flipping—partly from anxiety, partly from morning sickness that I’ve recently discovered isn’t only limited to mornings.
Please let this just be nerves.
I don’t want to throw up while telling my husband he’s going to be a father.
I swallow hard as he pulls out my chair.
He notices. Of course he notices.
His fingers brush my wrist before I sit. “Natalya…” His voice is low, assessing.
I offer him a shaky smile. “I’m fine. Just hungry.”
Viktor
Of course, she’s not fine…
Something is off with my wife.
And she thinks I haven’t noticed.
Natalya is good at hiding things from the world, I’ll give her that. Years of surviving the Popov household sharpened her ability to tuck her emotions behind a soft smile and calm eyes. But she’s never been able to hide from me. Not really.
Not her pleasure.
Not her fear.
Not her desire.
And definitely not this.
She keeps smoothing her palms over her dress as we sit down. Keeps taking careful breaths like she’s trying to discipline her own body. Keeps avoiding holding my gaze for too long. And her skin…it’s pale in that specific, clammy way that gives her away instantly.
She is pregnant.
I have known for a while now.
My wife thinks her body belongs only to her—and it does—but I know it as well as my own. I’ve memorized every inch of her. Every sound she makes. Every shift in her breathing. Every subtle change in her scent, her weight, the way she sleeps curled closer to me.
And her body has been whispering its secret for a week now.
Her breasts are fuller.
Her stomach has the tiniest swell.
Her skin glows different.
She runs hot at night and cold in the mornings.
She thinks she’s hiding it well.
She’s not.
What I can’t figure out—what has been eating at me since I put the pieces together—is why she hasn’t told me yet. Natalya isn’t afraid of me. And she knows I would never be angry with her about something like this, but still…she’s holding it in like a fragile secret she’s protecting.
I’ve barely survived keeping my excitement from her. I hate hiding anything from my wife, especially joy.
We eat in that comfortable silence where we’re still very much aware of each other’s presence.
She looks pale again, pushing food around her plate instead of eating it.
Time to test a theory.
I rise slightly from my chair.
“I forgot to grab a bottle of wine,” I say casually.
The effect is immediate.
Her hand shoots out, gripping my wrist.
“Wait—” she blurts. Too fast. Then she clears her throat. “Maybe we just do water tonight?”
I school my face, but a smirk slips through anyway.
She goes still.
Then gives me the flattest, most unimpressed look she can muster.
“How long have you known?”
I settle back in my chair, folding my arms.
“I don’t know a thing.” I shrug. “You haven’t told me.”
She narrows her eyes. “Viktor.”
I lean in and take her hand gently. I can feel how tense she is. How scared she might be– not of me, but of disappointing me. Or of the unknown. Or maybe she’s afraid she’ll cry and embarrass herself. Suddenly, worry claws up my spine, sharp and unwelcome.
“Lepestok…” My voice drops. “If there’s something you need to tell me, you don’t have to be afraid.”
Her lower lip trembles, just slightly.
“Whatever it is,” I say quietly, tightening my grip on her hand, “I will support you. Always. Nothing you say will upset me.”
I wait, keeping my breath steady, forcing myself to stay still. Because if I’m wrong—if she isn’t pregnant—then I’ll comfort her through whatever this is.
But if I’m right…
If I’m right, I already know my life is about to change.
And I’ve never wanted anything more.
She holds my gaze for a long moment, her throat working like she’s trying to swallow a stone. Then she lets out a shaky breath and reaches into the pocket of her dress. She brings out a small, rectangular sheet and places it in my hand.
An ultrasound picture.
A tiny blur—a heartbeat frozen in black and white.
“Our baby,” she whispers.
My chest goes tight in a way I’ve never felt before. The world seems to narrow to just her voice, her trembling smile, the faint rise and fall of her breath.
I look up at her.
And even though I’ve guessed it—it still hits me like a storm.
“You’re pregnant,” I say quietly, reverently.
She nods.
But her smile is weak. And when I look closer, I see the fear behind her eyes.
“You’re…not happy?” I ask carefully.
Her expression crumples on the edges. “No. No, Viktor. I’m not unhappy.” Her hand flies to her stomach, protective by instinct. “I just waited too long.”
I glance again at the ultrasound. The date.
It’s been ten weeks.
My brows draw together. “Ten weeks?”
She nods, embarrassed. “I know. I should’ve told you sooner.” She clasps her hands together tightly. “I just…I was scared.”
A cold spike of dread slips down my spine. “Scared of what, lepestok?”
She lifts her eyes to mine, and there is something terribly old and terribly sad in them.
“I’m scared I’m not gonna do this right.
My childhood—” she trails off, pressing her lips together as if it’s hard for her to continue.
But then she lifts her face bravely. “My parents didn’t set the best example…
.” Her voice shakes. “I don’t want to become her. I don’t want to be like my mother.”
My heart breaks for her.
For the girl she used to be.
For the woman she is now, terrified she’ll bleed trauma into the next generation.
“Natalya…” I move without thinking, sliding off my chair and kneeling in front of her. I take both her hands in mine. Her fingers are cold. Too cold. “Look at me.”
She does. Because she always does when I ask like that.