Chapter 17 #2
She just walks to the door, pausing there long enough to whisper, “For their sake, I hope it stays that simple.”
Then she’s gone, and I’m left alone with my son, the soft beeping of monitors, and the echo of a truth I don’t want to admit.
It’s already not that simple.
Not anymore.
Nikolai nestles closer, warm and fragile against me, his fingers still curled in the fabric of my shirt.
The machines continue their steady rhythm, the soft glow of the monitors painting his face in shifting light.
He’s quiet for a while, and I think he’s fallen asleep again—until his voice, drowsy and gentle, slips out.
“Mommy…who was that man?”
My heart stops. I keep my breathing even, my fingers trailing lightly up and down his back. “What man, baby?”
“The one from earlier. The one with Mila.” He pauses. “He looked really serious. But not mean.”
I swallow hard, biting back a rush of something I can’t name. “You mean Konstantin?” I say softly.
He nods against my chest. “He looked at me like he knew me. And Mila talked to him like she knew him too. Is he…a doctor?”
My throat tightens. I wish I could say yes. I wish I could give him a clean, simple answer. But there’s nothing simple about Konstantin.
“No, sweetheart. He’s not a doctor.”
“Then who is he?”
I hesitate, stroking his hair, my mind scrambling for a truth that won’t fracture him. A truth I can live with.
“Is he nice?”
The question stabs deeper than it should. I close my eyes.
“I think he’s trying to be,” I say honestly.
Nikolai is quiet for a long moment, his small fingers still curled around the edge of my shirt.
“Is he going to come back?” he asks, voice featherlight.
I press a kiss to the top of his head. “Maybe. Do you want him to?”
Another pause. A tiny nod.
“Okay,” I whisper, holding him tighter. “Then he will.”
But even as I say it, something twists low in my gut.
Because I don’t know.
I don’t know if Konstantin’s presence will bring healing—or more damage we can’t afford. But as my son breathes soft and warm against me, and the machines tick steadily on, I know this much: I have to find a way to make all of this right.
I don’t realize I’ve drifted off until I feel a light touch on my shoulder.
My eyes blink open slowly. The room is dim, the overhead lights switched off, the heart monitor pulsing steadily beside me. I must have fallen asleep curled beside Nikolai, one arm still draped over his small body.
“Hey,” comes a familiar voice, low and quiet.
I jerk slightly, sitting up. Konstantin is standing beside the bed, wearing a clean shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the first few buttons undone.
“What time is it?” I murmur, rubbing my eyes.
“Just after five.” He crouches slightly, careful not to wake Nikolai. “You should go home. Get a real night’s sleep.”
I blink at him. “Excuse me?”
“I’ll stay here,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’ll watch him.”
I let out a short laugh. “You? Sit by a hospital bed all night? What, are you going to break kneecaps if the IV beeps wrong?”
He gives me a dry look. “You really can’t picture it?”
“No,” I admit, still groggy. “Not exactly the mob boss image.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I think I can handle it. Pretty sure he doesn’t bite.”
“Seriously?” I tilt my head, studying him.
He doesn’t smile. His gaze dips to Nikolai, his expression softening into something I’m not sure I’ve ever seen on his face.
“I can’t lose more time with my son,” he says, so quietly it nearly gets lost beneath the hum of the machines. “I’ve already missed five years.”
Something in my chest gives a slow, reluctant tug. I try not to let it show.
Instead, I slip carefully off the bed and adjust the blankets around Nikolai. I don’t want to leave, not really. But I know Irina will be back soon. I know Mila is likely curled up at the estate, probably asking for me in her sleep.
I straighten, brushing hair off my face, and glance at him.
“Last night must’ve been a fluke,” I say lightly, reaching for my jacket. “Don’t worry. I get it. You’re not here for me. You’re here for your children. Your heir.”
He glances up sharply at that, something flickering behind his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything.
I don’t wait for him to.
“Don’t let the monitors intimidate you,” I say, breezing past him toward the door. “They’re louder than they look.”
“Nadya,” he says behind me.
I stop, my hand on the handle, but I don’t turn around.
“Lev will drive you home,” he says.
I nod once, keeping my face carefully blank, and step out into the corridor—telling myself again and again that this is what I wanted.
The ride back to the estate is quiet, save for Lev’s usual scattered commentary. He doesn’t press me with questions, thank God—just fills the silence with his own thoughts about the weather, LA traffic, and something about a German shepherd puppy he once tried to smuggle through customs.
I rest my head against the window, letting his voice wash over me. He doesn’t pry. He never really does. He seems to instinctively understand what people can and can’t handle, and right now, I’m grateful for that.
“I gotta say, though,” he says after a few minutes, flashing a grin as he turns into the long driveway, “that little girl of yours? Mila? Total heartbreaker. She had every one of the kitchen staff wrapped around her little finger before breakfast.”
I can’t help it—I smile. A real one.
“She’s stubborn,” I say softly. “Knows exactly what she wants.”
“She get that from you or her father?”
I glance sideways at him, and his grin fades slightly. “Sorry. None of my business.”
“It’s okay,” I murmur.
We don’t speak again until the car rolls to a stop under the estate’s covered entrance. I thank him quietly before heading inside, my limbs heavy, my thoughts heavier.
The house is still. Sunlight spills in through the massive windows, warming the marble floors.
I head straight to my room, kicking off my shoes the moment the door closes behind me.
The hot shower feels like redemption—washing away the hospital scent, the emotional weight, the cold cling of rain.
I stand there longer than I probably should, water pouring over my head, my face, my back.
When I finally step out and towel off, everything feels…quieter. A pause before the next shift.
I dress quickly—something soft, comfortable, ordinary—and pad barefoot down the stairs toward the kitchen.
Mila’s already at the table, swinging her legs from her chair, a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her. The sight of her—safe, fed, grinning at the cook like they’re old friends—makes something knot in my chest.
“Mommy!” she shouts when she sees me.
She hops down and runs over, arms wide, and I catch her easily, holding her tight, burying my face in her soft hair.
“Hi, baby,” I murmur, trying not to let the emotion catch in my throat. “Did you sleep well?”
She nods eagerly. “I had a dream I was flying. And the big man made pancakes!”
I glance up, and sure enough, one of the kitchen staff gives me a sheepish wave.
I laugh, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Lucky girl.”
We sit together at the table. She chatters away about the estate, the dogs, the pancakes, how she wants to swim even though she doesn’t know how. I listen, smiling when I can, nodding, making her giggle when I steal a piece of toast from her plate.
For a few moments, it’s easy to pretend this is what life has always looked like.
Mila plucks a strawberry from her plate and pops it into her mouth, swinging her little legs under the chair like she’s forgotten every hospital visit, every needle, every whisper of worry. It’s like the weight of the last few days hasn’t touched her.
“I feel like a princess,” she says suddenly, voice full of wonder as she glances around the sun-drenched kitchen. “Like I live in a castle.”
I blink, caught off guard. She says it so earnestly, with her juice-stained lips and tousled curls, like this place—the marble floors, the enormous windows, the chandelier hanging above the breakfast nook—is a fairy tale made real.
I laugh softly. “Oh yeah?”
She nods solemnly, grabbing another piece of toast. “It’s big, and shiny, and there are guards outside. And the hallways echo. Like in the movies. It’s like a castle, Mommy.”
My throat tightens, and I reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t need a castle to be a princess.”
“I know,” she says, chewing. “But I like it here.”
The admission pierces something inside me. Because I don’t like it here. I’ve been bracing myself since the moment we walked in—waiting for danger, for power plays, for the shadows of this world to reach out and snatch her back. But Mila…she’s already making herself at home.
“Do you think we’ll stay here forever?” she asks, eyes wide and expectant.
I smile through the sudden ache in my chest. “No, sweetheart. Not forever.”
She pouts. “Why not?”
Because the world isn’t safe just because the curtains are velvet. Because this house may look like a dream, but it was built by blood. Because the man whose arms she fell asleep in last night is both her father—and a man I’ve spent six years trying to forget.
I lean in and kiss her temple. “Because forever’s a long time. And we still have so many places left to see.”
She hums, accepting that answer with the easy faith only children have.
But as she picks up another strawberry and starts humming to herself, questions hang in the air like dust in the sunlight.
What if he wants her to stay?
What if she wants to stay too?