Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mirabel
Two Weeks Later
The weeks after Arkady’s proposal have been pure joy.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to tear apart this fragile happiness we’ve built. But it doesn’t. Instead, days blur together in a haze of sunlight and laughter and nights that leave me boneless in tangled sheets.
Arkady told me to stop working as his housekeeper. Just like that. One morning over breakfast, he looked up from his coffee and said, “You’re done cleaning my house, zaychik. I’ll hire someone else.”
I tried to argue—what else am I supposed to do all day?—but he cut me off with a look. That look. The one that says he’s made a decision and debate is pointless.
Two days later, he posted the job listing himself.
Same website where I’d applied months ago.
Now he sits in his office conducting interviews, asking questions about references and experience while I listen through the door and try not to laugh.
Arkady Laurov, Bratva prince, interrogating potential housekeepers like they’re applying to handle state secrets.
Which, knowing this house, they probably are.
Debra moved out of the Secret Room. Arkady had the east wing suite prepared for her—the one with the garden view and the bathroom that’s bigger than my old apartment.
She was terrified at first. I could see it in the way she stood in the doorway, frozen, like stepping inside meant something would hurt her.
But Yanis helped. He’s patient with her in ways I didn’t know men could be patient. Gentle. He spent three hours that first day just sitting with her in the new room, letting her adjust to the space. Now she’s there most nights, and during the day, we’re together.
Every moment possible, we’re together.
We sit in the garden. We walk through the house. We watch movies in the theater room that Arkady had built into the basement. Sometimes we don’t talk at all, just exist in the same space, and that’s enough.
She’s getting better. Not healed—Dr. Harrison says it won’t happen in weeks—but better. She smiles sometimes. Real smiles that reach her eyes. Soon, she’ll be strong enough to visit our father, who’s also been making good progress, according to his doctors. The days are good.
And the evenings…
Every single evening, Arkady comes to our bedroom and takes me apart.
Some nights it’s rough, his hands bruising my hips, his teeth marking my throat.
Other nights it’s slower, almost worshipful, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin like he’s soaking me in.
But every night, he’s there. Every night, he makes me forget everything except the weight of him above me and the sound of my name in his mouth.
I’m so happy it scares me.
Now I’m lying on Dr. Petrov’s examination table, the paper crinkling beneath me. The gel is cold against my belly, and I hiss through my teeth.
Arkady stands to my left, his hand wrapped around mine. His thumb traces circles on my palm—that same possessive gentleness he’s been showing me for two weeks. But I can feel the tension in him. The tightness in his jaw. The way his shoulders are set like he’s preparing for a fight.
Even here, in a doctor’s office, he’s ready for violence.
That’s who he is. Who he’ll always be.
But right now, that violence is pointed outward. Protecting. Not threatening.
Debra sits in the chair by the window, hands folded in her lap. She asked to come. Wanted to be here. Three weeks ago, she couldn’t leave her room without dissociating. Now she’s here, watching me get an ultrasound, and my throat tightens with gratitude.
“Ready?” Dr. Petrov asks.
“Yes,” I say.
The wand presses against my stomach, and suddenly there’s an image on the screen. Gray and white and moving. A head. Tiny limbs. Fingers.
I can see fingers.
“Everything looks good,” Dr. Petrov says. “Strong heartbeat. Good size. Right on track for twenty-four weeks.”
My free hand moves to my stomach, covering the swell that’s impossible to hide now. I’ve surrendered to maternity clothes. Arkady bought me an entire wardrobe—designer labels I’ve never heard of, delivered in boxes that filled the bedroom.
When I tried to protest, he just looked at me and said, “You’re carrying my daughter. You’ll dress like it.”
Daughter. He’d said it with such certainty.
“Do you want to know the sex of the baby?” Dr. Petrov asks.
I look at Arkady. He nods.
“Yes,” I say.
Dr. Petrov smiles. “You’re having a girl. A healthy baby girl.”
A girl.
Tears fill my eyes, blurring the screen. I try to blink them back, but they’re already spilling over, hot against my temples.
Arkady’s hand tightens on mine. When I turn to look at him, his eyes are bright. Not crying—Arkady Laurov doesn’t cry—but there’s something there that wasn’t before. Something raw and unguarded.
“A girl,” he says. His voice is rough. “We’re having a girl.”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“I knew it,” he says with typical Arkady certainty.
Debra stands and moves to the table, stopping beside Arkady. She looks at the screen, at the tiny human floating in that gray space. Then she touches my shoulder. Brief. Light. But contact.
“She’s perfect,” Debra says softly.
She is. Looking at that screen, at those little fingers and that beating heart, I know she’s perfect.
Dr. Petrov hands me tissues and cleans the gel off my stomach. Outside the window, the sky is gray and drizzling, but inside this room, everything feels warm.
“I’ll print the images for you,” Dr. Petrov says. “And I want to see you back in three weeks.”
Arkady helps me off the table, his hand on my elbow. We don’t speak as we leave, as we walk through the waiting room where other pregnant women sit flipping through magazines. We don’t speak in the elevator or in the car park where Stefan waits with the SUV.
It’s not until we’re inside, doors closed, engine running, that Arkady turns to me, eyes filled with adoration.
“Maisonette,” he tells Stefan. Then to me: “We’re getting her everything.”
I want to say we have time. My due date is months away.
But I don’t.
Because I want this too. I want to walk into that store and look at tiny clothes and soft blankets. I want to imagine our daughter wearing them.
“Okay,” I say.
Arkady’s mouth curves into a smile; he’s been doing that a lot lately.
The drive takes twenty minutes. When we pull up outside the storefront, I see the window displays. Miniature furniture. Tiny clothes on tiny hangers. A mobile hanging from the ceiling, butterflies in purple and gold.
Inside, the store smells like new fabric and wood polish. A saleswoman approaches immediately.
“How can I help you today?”
“We’re having a girl,” Arkady says. His voice carries that edge of command, even here. “We need everything.”
The woman’s smile widens. “Congratulations. When are you due?”
“Four months,” I say.
“Wonderful. Let me show you our collections.”
We follow her through the store. Arkady moves like he’s conducting a military operation, pointing at cribs and changing tables and dressers. He doesn’t ask prices. Doesn’t hesitate. Just points and says, “That one.”
Pink and cream and lavender. Organic cotton and merino wool and silk. Everything so soft. So delicate.
“Mirabel.”
I turn. Arkady is holding up a onesie. Pale pink with white flowers embroidered across the front. Impossibly small.
“This one?” he asks.
“It’s beautiful.” I bite back a smile at the sight of him, the big, tough Bratva boss holding a little girl’s clothes in his tattooed hands.
He adds it to the growing pile. We move through racks of clothes. Some are beautiful. Some are absurd. A tutu for a newborn. A leather jacket in infant size.
I laugh at that one, the sound surprising me.
“She’ll be the most stylish baby in the state,” I say.
“In the world,” Arkady corrects. There’s pride in his voice. Ownership. This is his daughter, and she’ll have the best of everything because that’s what he provides.
Debra appears beside me, holding a soft yellow blanket. “This one’s nice,” she says.
I take it from her. Cashmere. Impossibly soft.
“It’s perfect,” I say.
By the time we finish, we’ve filled three shopping carts. Clothes in every shade of pink imaginable. Blankets. Towels. A mobile with stars and moons. A rocking chair. Books. Toys. A sound machine. Blackout curtains.
Everything our daughter could possibly need.
At the register, the total appears. I try not to look at the amount.
Try not to think about how this one shopping trip costs more than my father’s entire first round of treatment.
My father, who is going to be so thrilled to know he has a granddaughter on the way.
I can’t wait to visit again to tell him.
Arkady hands over his card without blinking.
We load everything into the SUV, with instructions for a van to deliver the rest of the furniture. Boxes and bags are stacked to the ceiling, secured with bungee cords. I sit in the front, my hands resting on my stomach. She’s moving now. Small flutters I’m learning to recognize.
“She’s going to be spoiled,” I say.
“Yes,” Arkady agrees. “And?”
I don’t have an answer. I grin instead.
Maybe life is finally taking a change for the better.