Chapter 16
KONSTANTIN
I don’t move. Not even after she’s gone. Not even after her words—One of them is suffering because of you—stop echoing and start embedding themselves into my ribs like shrapnel.
My pulse thunders, but my mind is still. Too still.
Twins.
One of them is suffering.
Because of me.
I’m still standing in the middle of the hallway, fists clenched, jaw aching from how tightly I’ve locked it. None of this makes sense.
And then—
A sound. Soft. Hesitant. Barely louder than a breath.
“Mommy?”
I turn. Slowly. Mechanically.
And I see her. A little girl—maybe four, maybe five—standing a few feet away, peeking out from behind the corner where the waiting room meets the corridor.
Her hair is a rich chestnut, tumbling down in messy waves. She’s wearing a cartoon-print hoodie, sleeves too long for her arms. She clutches a small plush fox in one hand, its fur worn down from love.
And her face—
God. It’s like a fist to the chest.
She looks exactly like my mother.
The curve of her cheek, the slope of her brow, the way her bottom lip pushes out when she’s nervous—it’s her. All of her.
I take a breath and realize I haven’t taken one since Nadya walked away.
The girl stares at me, blinking slowly. Her eyes are wide and cautious, but curious too. There’s no fear. Just…innocence. And that word still hanging in the air like a whisper:
Mommy?
But I know. With a certainty that frightens me.
She’s mine. Both of them are.
Nadya was never protecting herself.
She was protecting them.
My legs finally move. I crouch down slowly, keeping my hands open, loose.
“Hey,” I say, my voice lower now. “You lost?”
She hugs the stuffed animal tighter. “No,” she says. “I heard Mommy. But she’s not here now.”
I nod once. My throat is tight. “She’ll be back soon.”
“What’s your name?” she asks, tilting her head.
I pause. And then I say, softly, carefully, “Konstantin.”
She smiles shyly, rocking on her heels. “That’s a big name.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, barely breathing. “It is.”
She tilts her head up at me again, like she’s trying to decide if I’m safe or not.
“What are you doing here?” I ask her softly.
“I’m here for my brother,” she says, matter-of-fact.
A breath leaves me. “Your brother?”
She nods. “He’s sick again.
I glance around the corridor. No sign of Nadya.
“How did you get down here?” I ask slowly.
She points a tiny finger toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. “I took the steps. The elevator’s slow.”
Of course she did.
I press a hand to my temple, rising to my feet. “And where is he now?”
“Upstairs,” she says easily. “Room four-twelve.”
Four-twelve.
It hits me harder than it should. I don’t need Lev’s intel anymore. It’s right here, standing in front of me, looking like my mother with wide, guileless eyes.
“Alright,” I say. “Let’s go back.”
She slips her small hand into mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And I let her.
We take the stairs, her skipping one or two steps at a time, still clutching the plush fox like it holds her together. I try not to overthink how comfortable she seems beside me. I try not to think at all.
But it’s impossible.
She has my blood. Which means…
We reach the fourth floor. The girl stops at a door and pushes it open.
The moment I step inside, everything changes.
There’s a small boy curled up in a hospital bed, thin, pale, an oxygen tube threaded beneath his nose. Machines beep steadily around him, far too many for someone so small. There’s an IV drip, monitors, a tray of uneaten food beside the bed.
And then I see her.
A woman in her early fifties straightens from the chair near the window—protective, alert. Her eyes widen when she sees me.
She recognizes me immediately. “Mr. Buryakov,” she says quietly, warily. “What are you doing here?”
I blink at her. Buryakov.
She knows who I am.
“You’re Irina,” I say, almost to myself.
She steps closer to the little girl, whose hand is still loosely clasped in mine. “Mila,” she murmurs. “Where did you rush off to?”
“I went to find Mommy,” Mila says innocently, lifting her arms.
Irina scoops her up and holds her tightly, whispering something into her hair that I don’t catch. Her eyes never leave mine.
The room is thick with unspoken things.
I take a step closer to the hospital bed. The boy is sleeping—fitfully, if the little furrow in his brow is anything to go by. There’s a dampness at his temple, his breathing shallow, but steady. Machines hum around him, blinking like silent sentries.
“What’s his name?” I ask quietly, eyes never leaving him.
Irina hesitates. I can hear her heartbeat from here.
But then she exhales slowly and answers, “Nikolai.”
The name lands like a stone in my chest.
My hand flexes at my side.
“How old is he?” I ask, though part of me already knows.
“Five,” Irina replies. “They’re twins. Mila came first.”
I nod once. “And what’s wrong with him?”
She pauses again, gaze narrowing. “That’s not something I can discuss with you, sir.”
“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, jaw tight. “I’m not my father.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
I can’t blame her.
Her arms tighten protectively around Mila, whose head has slumped against her shoulder, fingers still clutching the plush fox. Irina strokes her hair absently.
“Nikolai’s condition is…rare,” she finally says. “He needs more tests. Treatment. Time. But he’s strong. He’s fighting.”
I watch him as he sleeps, the tiny rise and fall of his chest nearly drowned out by the quiet hum of machines around him. The oxygen tube taped to his cheek makes my throat tighten.
I’ve sat beside dying men. I’ve seen bullet wounds rip through flesh, heard final breaths gurgle from lungs. But this—this boy fighting silently in a hospital bed—undoes me more than any battlefield.
My son.
I can’t stop saying it in my head.
He has my jawline. My stubborn brow. Even the way his hands curl over the blanket feels familiar.
I don’t speak. I can’t.
Behind me, Irina gently lowers Mila onto a cushioned chair. She covers the girl with a soft shawl and presses a kiss to her forehead. Then she turns to me.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says, not coldly, but with steel. “She didn’t want you knowing.”
“I know that,” I murmur, still watching the boy. “Doesn’t change the fact that I do now.”
Then Irina glances at the clock. “She went down to get medicine,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. “Said she’d be right back.”
“She got the medicine.”
Irina looks up, startled. “What?”
“She was at the counter when I saw her. I paid for the medicine. That was…” I check my watch. “Fifteen minutes ago.”
Irina stiffens. Her grip on Mila tightens. “She should’ve been back by now,” she says. Something’s wrong.”
I look toward the door.
The last time I saw Nadya, she’d been pale, off-balance, shaken.
My jaw tightens. “Stay with them,” I say, already striding toward the hallway.
“Where are you going?” Irina calls after me.
“To find her.”
She’s not in the hallway.
Not in the stairwell.
Not in the elevator.
Not in the goddamn lobby.
I sweep through every corridor of the hospital, checking each corner, every shadowed nook. People turn to stare as I pass. Some nurses ask if I’m lost, but I don’t stop. I don’t answer. I don’t care. There’s only one thing I need to find, and it’s her.
But she’s gone. And with every passing second, the pulse in my neck beats louder.
I step out of the hospital, and the moment the doors slide shut behind me, the sky splits open. Rain pours down in thick, unforgiving sheets. Soaking my suit in seconds.
I swing into the driver’s seat of the black SUV and slam the door shut, gripping the wheel.
Where the hell did you go, Nadya?
Is this about the fight? About what I said? About how I touched her like she was mine and then accused her of being someone else’s?
My hands curl tight around the steering wheel.
I did this. I pushed her too hard. Again.
She’s out there, alone in the rain, and the thought that she might’ve run just to get away from me makes something splinter inside my chest.
A knock on the window startles me. It’s Lev, soaked and squinting under the downpour. I roll it down halfway.
“You heading out?” he asks, peering in.
“Yeah,” I say. “I need to find her. Nadya. She’s not in the hospital.”
He frowns. “You sure?”
“I searched every goddamn floor.”
Lev leans closer, squinting through the rain. “You think she’s in trouble?”
“I don’t know what I think,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. “I think she needed space.”
“You two have a fight?”
I don’t answer.
Lev exhales through his nose, glancing back at the hospital doors. “You want backup?”
“No. I need you to stay here.”
Lev raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. “Alright,” he says. “Call me if you find her.”
“I will.”
He steps back from the window as I roll it up again and turn the key.
The engine hums to life, and I drive without direction, letting instinct take the wheel.
Los Angeles blurs around me in streaks of neon and storm.
The city, usually loud and pulsing, is drowned tonight beneath torrential rain.
Wipers slap the windshield in a futile rhythm, and I grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ache.
Her voice echoes in my head.
One of them is suffering because of you.
And I don’t even remember touching her.
What kind of man doesn’t remember the night he created a child?
Children.
She stood in my home. Slept in my bed. Let me touch her, kiss her, without saying a goddamn word. She looked me in the eye knowing I was their father.
The betrayal festers in my chest like acid.
The rain slams harder now, angry fists on the roof of the car. I swipe at the fog on the inside of the glass with my sleeve and blink into the downpour—and that’s when I see her.
A slumped figure, soaked and still, sitting on a park bench like the rain’s forgotten to fall on anyone else. Her hair is plastered to her face, the dress she wore earlier now heavy with water. She’s hunched, arms wrapped around herself, and I don’t even hesitate.