Chapter 39 Lena
LENA
Iforce myself down the stairs that evening, my stomach still queasy but manageable if I don't think too hard about food.
Aleksandr can't know I'm pregnant. No one can. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I haven't figured that part out.
The dining room glows with warm light when I enter, and both Aleksandr and Danil look up from where they're already seated. Aleksandr's gold eyes track over me, his intelligent gaze searching me for signs of illness.
"Feeling better?" he asks, standing to pull out my chair.
"Much." The lie comes easily now. "I think I just needed rest."
Danil pours wine, and I accept a glass even though the smell makes my stomach turn. I take the smallest sip possible, then set it aside and focus on the food being served. Roasted chicken, vegetables, bread. Simple things that might actually stay down.
"So," Danil says, cutting into his chicken with the precision of a surgeon. "The party planning is going well?"
I nod, grateful for the neutral topic. "I got in touch with the event planner and we're going to meet later. She has some great ideas and seems very up-to-date on parties, themes, and how to manage such an occasion on short notice."
"Good." Aleksandr's knee brushes mine under the table, and heat shoots up my thigh. I shift slightly away. "I want this to be memorable."
"Oh, it will be." I take a careful bite of chicken. "You're essentially throwing yourself a 'glad I'm not dead' party. That's pretty memorable."
Danil chokes on his wine, coughing into his napkin. When he recovers, he's grinning. "She has a point, Boss."
Aleksandr's mouth quirks. "I prefer to think of it as a strategic gathering."
"With champagne and a string quartet," I add. "Very strategic."
"The champagne loosens tongues," he says. "The music covers conversations people think are private."
"And here I thought you just wanted an excuse to see me in a fancy dress." The words slip out before I can stop them, flirtatious and dangerous.
His eyes darken, dropping to my mouth. "That's a bonus."
Danil clears his throat loudly. "Should I leave you two alone?"
"No," we say in unison, then look at each other and laugh.
The tension breaks, and dinner becomes almost normal.
Danil tells a story about a job that went sideways in Prague, complete with a car chase and a very angry opera singer.
Aleksandr counters with something about a deal in Moscow that involved a goat, three bottles of vodka, and a misunderstanding about property boundaries.
I find myself laughing, really laughing, for the first time since we left Montana. My stomach settles, the food stays down, and for a few hours, I can almost pretend this is just dinner with friends instead of a meal with my captor and his enforcer.
And the father of my baby.
When Danil finally excuses himself, claiming he needs to check on security arrangements, Aleksandr walks me to my room. We stop outside my door, and the air between us feels charged.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For tonight. For making it feel almost normal."
"Almost." His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "We're getting there."
He leans in, and I think he's going to kiss me. I want him to kiss me, despite everything. But he just presses his lips to my forehead, gentle and chaste, then steps back.
"Goodnight, Lena."
"Goodnight."
I close the door and lean against it, my heart pounding so hard, I can hear it in my ears.
The next two weeks pass in a blur of activity that keeps me too busy to spiral into panic about the pregnancy. The event coordinator, a sharp woman who doesn't ask questions about why the Pakhan’s fiancée has no friends or family to invite, becomes my constant companion.
We taste wines—well, she tastes and I make an excuse that I don't drink—and approve floral arrangements. We review seating charts and discuss whether the ice sculptures are too much. They are, but Aleksandr wants them anyway.
The house fills with staff preparing for the party.
Cleaners polish every surface until the marble floors reflect like mirrors.
Florists transform the great room into something from a fairy tale, all white roses and trailing ivy.
The kitchen staff tests recipes while I sample and provide feedback, forcing myself to eat even when my stomach protests.
Ronnie stops by one afternoon while I'm reviewing the final seating chart. He's one of Aleksandr's most trusted captains, with kind brown eyes that crinkle when he smiles.
"You're doing a good job with all this," he says, gesturing at the organized chaos around us. "The boss is lucky to have you."
"I'm just planning a party." I mark another name on the chart. "It's not exactly rocket science."
"It's more than that." He leans against the doorframe, his suit jacket pulling tight across his shoulders. "You're giving him something to come home to. Something beyond the business. That matters."
The words sit heavy in my chest long after he leaves.
I see Aleksandr in passing, brief moments where our eyes meet across rooms full of people. He's always in motion, always handling something, but he finds time to check on me. To ask if I need anything. To brush his fingers across my lower back when he passes.
The pregnancy symptoms ease slightly, or maybe I'm just getting better at hiding them. I keep crackers in my room and eat them before getting out of bed. I avoid strong smells and take frequent breaks when the nausea hits.
No one seems to notice. Or if they do, they're too polite to mention it.
Saturday arrives with perfect weather, clear skies, and temperatures just warm enough that guests can spill onto the terrace without freezing. I spend the afternoon getting ready, my hands shaking as I apply makeup I haven't worn in years.
The dark blue dress that Aleksandr insisted I buy when he took me shopping hangs in my closet, waiting. When I finally slip it on, the silk feels like water against my skin. The color makes my eyes look even darker, almost black, and the cut emphasizes curves I'd forgotten I had.
I study my reflection, barely recognizing the woman staring back. She looks elegant. Confident. Nothing like the woman in the cabin who wore jeans and flannels most of the time.
I actually look like someone who might belong at Aleksandr Romanov's side.
I stare at myself, turning in different directions to get the full view, for a few more minutes, then shake my head.
I need to go down to the party. I need to make the appearance of Romanov's fiancée.
And you can bet your ass I'm going to try and enjoy the fruits of my labor, even if I have to mingle with killers all night.
I descend the stairs slowly, one hand on the railing for balance in heels I'm not used to wearing. The great room below hums with conversation and music, the string quartet playing something classical and beautiful.
Aleksandr waits at the bottom of the stairs.
He's devastating in a perfectly tailored black suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His dark hair is styled back from his face, and those gold eyes lock onto me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
For a moment, I see Sasha beneath the Pakhan’s mask. The man who made me laugh during snowball fights and made sweet love to me. Who made me feel self. The man I fell in love with before I knew who he really was.
Then the moment passes, and he's Aleksandr again. Dangerous. Powerful. And still sexy.
He offers his arm when I reach the bottom step. "You look sensational."
"You clean up pretty well yourself." I take his arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath the expensive fabric.
His hand covers mine, warm and possessive. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
We enter the great room together, and the effect is immediate. Conversations stop mid-sentence. Heads turn. Every eye in the room assesses me, cataloging everything from my dress to my shoes to the way Aleksandr's hand rests on my lower back.
I lift my chin and smile, channeling every ounce of confidence I don't actually feel.
The room is full of dangerous men in expensive suits and their women in designer dresses. I recognize some faces from the day Aleksandr returned, but most are strangers. They watch us with expressions ranging from curiosity to calculation to barely concealed hostility.
Aleksandr guides me through the crowd, introducing me to captains and their wives. I shake hands and make small talk, playing the role of devoted fiancée while my heart races. Do any of them recognize me and remember that he'd put a hit on me?
We're accepting champagne from a passing waiter when a woman approaches.
She's striking, with auburn hair swept into an elegant chignon and sharp blue eyes that assess me like I'm a bug under a microscope.
Her black dress is perfectly tailored, expensive without being flashy, and she moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how much power she holds.
She extends her hand to Aleksandr, ignoring me completely.
"Welcome back from the dead, Aleksandr." Her voice is smooth, cultured, with just a hint of a Russian accent. "We all thought you'd finally met your match and departed this Earth."