Chapter 19 #2
“I would help you with whatever you need, whenever you need it.” Her response carries quiet certainty that encompasses far more than household management or pregnancy support. “Your well-being and the well-being of your children are what matters most.”
The conversation has ventured into territory that feels simultaneously liberating and dangerous.
It suddenly hits me that what Alina’s really saying isn’t just about helping with the babies or running the house.
She’s making it clear without spelling it out that if things come down to a choice, she’s on my side, not Iskander’s.
Her quiet support feels like a lifeline, even if we’re both dancing around the truth.
My chest begins to constrict with the familiar onset of panic as the implications of our discussion settle into my consciousness.
The possibility of leaving Iskander, of protecting our children by removing them from his dangerous world, creates a cascade of anxiety that threatens to overwhelm my ability to think clearly.
“I need to focus on breathing.” The words come out strained as I fight against the rising tide of terror that accompanies thoughts of single motherhood and life as a fugitive from the only man I’ve ever loved.
“Of course. Close your eyes and concentrate on slow, deep breaths.” Alina’s voice becomes professionally soothing, though she maintains her position by the window rather than approaching to offer physical comfort.
I follow her guidance, drawing air into my lungs while my mind searches for something safe to focus on besides the conversation that’s unleashed so many suppressed fears. Random memories surface as I seek distraction from the panic threatening to consume my rational thoughts.
I settle on a memory of being in Henri’s kitchen on a rainy afternoon when I was eighteen, learning to make his grandmother’s recipe for coq au vin while he shared stories about growing up in Lyon before the war changed everything.
The scent of herbs and wine mingle with the sound of rain against windows, creating a sanctuary of warmth and safety that felt foreign after years of institutional care.
“The secret,” he’d said, adjusting my grip on the wooden spoon, “Is patience. Good things cannot be rushed, ma petite . They develop slowly, with careful attention and the willingness to trust the process even when you don’t yet see the final result.”
His hands had guided mine as we stirred the simmering sauce while his presence created security I’d never experienced with foster families who treated me like a temporary inconvenience.
Henri saw potential where others saw problems, offering guidance without judgment and stability without conditions.
“You are building something beautiful,” he’d continued, tasting the sauce and nodding approval. “Not just this dish, but your life. Each choice you make, each skill you develop, and each person you choose to trust becomes part of who you are meant to become.”
The memory of his voice, patient and encouraging, helps slow my racing heartbeat while reminding me of the guidance I miss desperately during moments of uncertainty.
Henri would have had opinions about my relationship with Iskander, about the choices I’m facing, and what kind of future I should build for my children. He would have been a doting grandpapa.
“Better?” Alina’s question draws me back to the present as the panic attack recedes into manageable anxiety.
“Much better. Thank you for staying with me.” I open my eyes to find her still positioned by the window, her expression carrying satisfaction that seems disproportionate to the simple breathing exercises we’ve shared.
“Panic attacks during pregnancy can be dangerous if not managed properly. Perhaps you should mention these episodes to Dr. Layton at your next appointment.” Her suggestion carries professional concern, though something in her manner suggests she’s already aware of the frequency of my anxiety attacks.
“I will.” I gather the financial documents scattered across the desk, suddenly eager to return to the safe complexity of numbers and legal terminology rather than continue exploring the dangerous territory our conversation has entered.
“If you need anything else today, please don’t hesitate to ask.
I want to ensure you have everything necessary for your comfort and well-being.
” She moves toward the door with her characteristic grace, pausing at the threshold.
“Remember what we discussed about prioritizing your needs and making decisions that protect what matters most.”
After she leaves, I sit alone in the office surrounded by the blueprints for Iskander’s legitimate future, wondering if I’m simply a valuable asset to be protected rather than a woman to be cherished.
The conversation with Alina has given voice to doubts I’ve been afraid to acknowledge, while simultaneously offering possibilities I’m not sure I’m brave enough to consider.
The afternoon passes in a blur of contract reviews and financial projections, work that should feel hopeful but instead feels like evidence of a future being planned around me rather than with me.
Each document represents decisions made without my input and investments and partnerships that will determine the shape of our lives while treating my preferences as irrelevant details.
When Iskander returns as the sun is setting, I’m still at the desk reviewing Wellington’s partnership proposal. The sound of his footsteps in the hallway creates a familiar flutter of anticipation mixed with apprehension about how much attention he’ll have available for my concerns.
“How was your day?” He appears in the doorway looking exhausted but attempting a smile that’s supposed to reassure me everything is manageable despite evidence to the contrary.
“Productive, though challenging. I reviewed the Wellington proposal and identified several terms that need clarification before we can proceed.” I gesture at the marked-up contract spread across the desk. “Also, I had another dizzy spell this morning that lasted longer than usual.”
His expression sharpens with concern that seems genuine but fleeting, as if he’s already calculating how much time he can afford to spend discussing my health before returning to more pressing matters. “Are you feeling better now? Should we call Dr. Layton?”
“I’m fine now, but it scared me. Alina helped me through it, but I keep worrying about whether my body can handle carrying seven babies to term safely.
” The admission feels like repeating myself, voicing the same fears I’ve shared multiple times while watching him struggle to balance appropriate concern with impatience about issues he can’t control, but the fear lingers.
“The doctor said these symptoms are normal with multiples. We’re monitoring everything carefully, and we’ll handle complications if they arise.” His response lacks warmth, like he’s providing necessary reassurance automatically without actually listening.
The dismissive undertone in his voice confirms what Alina suggested about my concerns being treated as burdens rather than legitimate needs. Lately, the man who promises to build our future together seems incapable of staying present during conversations about the fears that keep me awake at night.
“I understand the medical aspects are being handled appropriately. I’m talking about emotional support during a frightening experience that could affect the children we’re planning our lives around.
” My voice carries more edge than I intended, frustration breaking through the careful politeness I’ve maintained while trying not to add stress to his already overwhelming responsibilities.
He looks up from his phone, where he’s been reading messages throughout our conversation, and I see him making an effort to focus entirely on me despite whatever urgent communications are demanding his attention. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Tell me what you need from me.”
The request sounds sincere, but it comes after days of similar conversations where my needs get postponed or minimized when business demands intervene.
“I need to feel like your partner rather than someone you’re protecting from a distance.
I need conversations about our relationship to feel as important as meetings about restaurant chains and territorial disputes. ”
“They are important. You and the babies are the most important things in my life.” His words carry conviction that would be reassuring if they were supported by tangible.
“Then why do I feel like I’m competing with everything else for your attention lately? Why do discussions about my fears get interrupted by phone calls and postponed until later that never comes?” I sound angry as suppressed frustration finally breaks through the careful restraint I’ve maintained.
His phone buzzes again, and I watch him glance at the screen despite his obvious effort to maintain focus on our conversation. The automatic response confirms everything Alina suggested about misplaced priorities.
“Answer it,” I say quietly, suddenly exhausted by the futile effort to compete with demands that will always feel more urgent than my need for reassurance and connection.
I wouldn’t be so concerned if I felt confident he’d have more time and attention once he deals with Mikhail, but I’m not confident about that right now.
I’m in a fragile state, and his lack of connection is making it harder for me regardless of his reasons for not being here.
“It can wait.”
“No, it can’t. It never can.” I close the Wellington contract and push it across the desk toward him. “I’ll review the rest of these tomorrow, though my input hardly matters. You clearly have more pressing matters to handle.”
He blinks in surprise at my words and opens his mouth to respond, but his phone buzzes again. “I…I’m sorry, Willa, but I need to take this. We will talk later.”
I nod, giving him a bitter smile, because I know we won’t.
He pauses to touch my shoulder. “I’m doing all of this for us.”
I nod once more. “I know.” I believe him and his intentions are good, but I’m not convinced he can ever fully break free of the bratva even if or when Mikhail is no longer a threat. Can he ever truly put me and the babies first? I wish I were sure he could.