Chapter 21
Willa
T hursday morning sunlight streams through the estate’s windows as I prepare for my fourteen-week prenatal appointment, the anticipation building in my chest like a slow-burning flame.
Today we might finally learn the gender if they cooperate and position themselves correctly for the ultrasound.
With seven of them crowded into my rapidly expanding belly, full cooperation seems unlikely.
Fourteen weeks with septuplets feels like hosting a small revolution.
Every movement creates ripples of discomfort as seven sets of developing limbs compete for space meant for one.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror, studying how pregnancy has transformed my face.
My cheeks are fuller, my skin carries that elusive glow everyone mentions, and my belly shows the unmistakable curve of impossibility made real.
My uterus is the size of a twenty-two-week singleton pregnancy according to one of my books, but I feel ginormous and much farther along than that.
I can already feel some movement, which is strange at this point, but it makes total sense.
Realizing there are eighteen weeks ahead of me seems daunting, but I wish I could safely endure the full twenty-six to keep them in until they’re born at term, if it were safe to carry them that long.
Iskander’s voice carries from his office as he conducts another urgent business call, using the same clipped Russian that’s become the soundtrack to our mornings. He’s already had three separate conversations before nine o’clock.
When I find him reviewing contracts with intense focus, he looks up with the expression of someone whose mind remains divided between immediate tasks and long-term obligations.
The Wellington partnership documents spread across his desk represent the legitimate future he’s building for us, but they also serve as another barrier between this moment and his attention.
“The appointment is in an hour.” I settle into the chair across from his desk, watching his face for signs he remembers what today could reveal. “Dr. Layton thinks we might be able to determine genders if the babies are positioned well.”
He sets down his pen and gives me what appears to be his full attention, though something in his posture suggests mental calculations about time and competing priorities, and there’s a vague hint of dawning realization that he’s forgotten in his expression. “That would be remarkable.”
The response carries warmth that encourages me to add more. “I was hoping you’d come with me. Three days ago you said you’d try to make it work.”
His expression shifts, and I watch him navigate between genuine desire to be present and the pressure of circumstances that seem to demand his immediate attention. “The Mikhail situation has escalated since then. Timur discovered some concerning intelligence that requires an urgent response.”
“There’s always urgent intelligence and some vague threat you never fully share.
There’s always another crisis that needs your personal intervention.
” My voice carries more edge than I intended as frustration breaks through my careful restraint.
“When does it end, Iskander? When do we become the priority?”
“You are the priority. Everything I’m doing serves the goal of protecting you and giving our children a safe future.” He gestures at the documents covering his desk. “The Wellington deal moves us significantly closer to complete legitimacy. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I also want a partner who shows up for important moments.” The admission emerges with raw honesty. “I want someone who chooses to be present during the miraculous parts of this pregnancy, not just the medical emergencies.”
“You think I don’t want to be there?” His voice carries defensive hurt that makes me reconsider the harshness of my words.
“I think you want to want to be there, but something always takes precedence.” I lean forward, needing him to understand the difference between intention and action.
“I’m asking for more than good intentions.
I’m asking for actual commitment to building a life where our relationship matters as much as your other responsibilities. ”
The conversation feels familiar and is another iteration of arguments we’ve circled repeatedly without resolution for the past few weeks.
His protective instincts and my need for partnership seem fundamentally incompatible, creating tension that passionate reconciliation temporarily masks but never truly resolves.
“What are you really asking me, Willa?” He sounds tired, almost defeated, and looks weary.
I want to ease up on him, but my own fears are haunting me, so I push instead.
“I’m asking if you can truly leave this world behind.
Not just delegate operations to Timur while maintaining oversight but actually walk away from the power and control that have defined your entire adult life.
” The words emerge with desperate honesty.
“I’m asking if you’ll choose us when other obligations demand your attention. ”
His shoulders droop as he exhales harshly.
“I’ve already committed to transferring operational control to Timur once the Mikhail situation is resolved.
The legitimate businesses provide sustainable income without any risks of indictments or prison time.
” His response sounds rehearsed, as if he’s explained these arrangements so frequently they’ve lost emotional resonance.
“Those are structural changes, not personal transformation. Leaving the bratva means more than reorganizing business operations.” I study his face for signs of understanding what I’m trying to convey.
“It means changing fundamental patterns about how you respond to threats and conflicts while trusting other people to handle problems you’ve always solved personally. ”
His jaw tightens with familiar defensiveness. “Some problems require personal resolution. Mikhail falls into that category because of our history and the specific threats he’s making against you.”
“Why does it have to be you? Timur is experienced and capable. He understands the situation without carrying emotional baggage that might cloud his judgment.” My challenge strikes at his assumptions about leadership and control.
“Maybe personal intervention is exactly what Mikhail wants. Maybe responding emotionally instead of strategically gives him the leverage he’s been seeking. ”
“You want me to delegate responsibility for your safety to someone else?” The question emerges with incredulous anger.
“I want you to consider whether your need for personal control serves our family’s interests or just satisfies your ego about proving dominance.
” The accusation cuts through his defensive justifications.
“I want you to examine whether killing Mikhail personally protects us or just perpetuates cycles of violence that will follow us regardless of other changes you’re making. ”
The suggestion that his protective instincts might be counterproductive transforms his expression into something approaching fury. “This isn’t about ego. Mikhail made this personal when he started targeting you and our children. Some insults demand personal response.”
“Do they?” I stand and move to the window overlooking gardens where armed guards maintain their vigilance. “What if walking away from personal vengeance is exactly what demonstrates the strength to build something different?”
“Walking away means accepting Mikhail can threaten my family without consequences. That’s not strength in my world. It’s weakness that invites further attacks.” His voice carries absolute conviction that brooks no argument about tactical necessities.
“Or it means trusting your organization to handle threats without requiring your personal involvement in violence that keeps you tied to a world you claim to want to leave.” We’re going in circles, each of us entrenched in positions that feel irreconcilable.
“How can you build a legitimate future while personally executing enemies from your criminal past?”
The logic of my argument seems to penetrate his defensive armor, though his expression remains stubbornly resistant to implications that challenge core beliefs about leadership and responsibility. We stare at each other across an emotional distance that currently seems insurmountable.
A soft knock interrupts our standoff and Alina appears in the doorway with impeccable timing. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but your appointment is in thirty minutes, Ms. Reynolds. Should I order the car?”
The reminder rattles me and clearly, Iskander too. We’ve spent precious time arguing about abstract principles instead of focusing on the immediate miracle of seeing our children’s development.
He moves toward his desk as if preparing to return to work. “Let me return a call to Timur, and then I’ll come with you.”
“No.” The word emerges with sharp finality that surprises all three of us.
“If you care more about Mikhail than about seeing our children on an ultrasound screen, I’ll go alone, but I won’t pretend this doesn’t matter, and I won’t accept excuses for why revenge takes priority over our relationship. ”
The ultimatum feels both empowering and terrifying.
It’s a line drawn in sand that could either force the necessary change or create irreparable damage between us.
I turn toward the door, suddenly exhausted by futile efforts to compete with obligations that will always feel more important than me or them.
“Willa, wait.” His voice carries something that might be capitulation. “You’re right. I said I’ll come with you.”
“Don’t do me any favors. Come because you want to see our children, not because I backed you into a corner with ultimatums.” I pause in the doorway, meeting his conflicted gaze directly.
“Come because this matters to you as much as your important business.” I infuse the last two words with anger that makes him flinch.
I’m not proud of it, but I enjoy seeing some kind of reaction from him. Am I getting through?
He nods slowly. “It does matter. You matter. I’ll meet you at the car in ten minutes.”
As I walk away, Alina is still standing in the hallway, her expression curious as she observes our domestic drama.
Something in her posture suggests she’s been listening longer than necessary for simple household coordination, though her professional demeanor gives away nothing.
She’s probably ensuring I don’t need extra support.
“Ms. Reynolds?” Her voice carries gentle concern. “Are you feeling well? You seem distressed.”
“I’m fine. Just pregnant and frustrated with relationship dynamics that feel impossible to resolve.” The admission emerges before I can filter it through appropriate employer-employee boundaries.
“I’ve heard pregnancy emotions can be overwhelming, especially when combined with external pressures.” She steps closer, dropping her voice to something approaching conspiracy. “Sometimes, men need clear demonstrations of consequences before they adjust their priorities appropriately.”
The observation is more than simple sympathy, but it sparks my guilt rather than making me feel vindicated. “Do you think I was too harsh with my ultimatum?”
“I think you advocated for your needs with appropriate directness. Men like Mr. Taranov need clarity. If gentle requests haven’t produced desired changes, stronger measures may be necessary.”
I nod, though I still feel terrible about how unforgiving I was. “Thank you for the perspective. I should prepare for the appointment.” I move toward the stairs, suddenly eager to escape this house and the tension with Iskander.
“Of course. I hope the appointment provides positive news about the babies’ development.” Her voice returns to professional warmth, though her expression reflects genuine interest in the babies’ development. It’s good to have that support.
Fifteen minutes later, I stand beside the SUV as Anton checks his watch again for the third time in the last five minutes. Iskander hasn’t appeared, and he’s sent me no message explains the delay. It’s another broken promise wrapped up as good intentions.
“Should we wait longer, Ms. Reynolds?” Anton asks.
“No. He’s made his choice.” I climb into the vehicle and pull out my phone to call Harper as Anton gets behind the wheel and turns on the engine. “We’re leaving.”
Harper answers quickly. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Can you meet me at Dr. Layton’s office in fifteen minutes? Iskander was supposed to come, but something more important came up. Again.” Bitterness creeps into my voice despite my efforts to sound casual, and I blink back the hot sting of tears.
Her voice is full of sympathy, along with an undertone of irritation that I’m sure is directed toward Iskander. “Of course I’ll be there. Are you okay?”
“I will be.” It’s a lie, but I don’t want to break down right now.
As Anton drives through Charleston traffic, I sink into the leather seat. The truth hits hard. Iskander’s promises about change are just words. Every crisis gives him an excuse to postpone the partnership I need, leaving me to face our children’s milestones alone.
The regret comes in waves. Maybe I was too harsh and too demanding. The world he’s trying to leave doesn’t offer easy exits or convenient timing. He’s fighting for us as hard as he can. I know that, and I realize part of my harshness is my own fear spilling over.
I wish I knew better ways to get through to him without fighting. The pattern hurts with my repeated requests for attention, his defensive explanations, and arguments that solve nothing while pushing us farther apart.
When I get back, I’ll try talking calmly once again while trying to keep a firmer hold on my frustration. Maybe understanding him better will help me find words that reach him without making him defensive. We want the same future, but we’re going about it wrong.
Seven babies deserve parents who can work things out without threats and broken promises.
They deserve a father who shows up because he wants to, not because I forced him, and a mother who isn’t always lashing out at their father because of fear and frustration.
Today’s disappointment shows how much work we still have ahead.
The city passes by the bulletproof windows as we head to Dr. Layton’s office, and I wonder if love is enough for what’s coming. Charleston’s morning light filters through the glass, but inside this protected space, everything feels distant and uncertain.