Chapter 19 - Yulia
Pain. Sharp and low, like a knife twisting in my abdomen. I drift in and out of consciousness, aware of Trifon’s arms around me, his panicked voice sounding far away even though his lips are at my ear.
There’s blood soaking through my dress. Something is very wrong with me, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I feel Trifon is terrified.
“Stay with me,” he begs. “Yulia, look at me.”
I try, but my eyelids feel weighted. The marble floor beneath us tilts and spins.
“Car’s here!” someone shouts.
Then I’m cradled against Trifon’s chest, and he strides through the foyer. His heartbeat thunders under my ear, too fast, too hard. Another cramp tears through me, and I whimper.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, the words tumbling out of him on repeat. “You’re going to be fine. I’ve got you.”
Cool night air hits my face. I hear car doors slam. I’m laid across the backseat, my head in Trifon’s lap. His fingers push damp hair from my forehead with a gentleness that feels foreign from those hands.
“Drive,” he barks. “Not the hospital. My clinic. Call Dr. Korov. Tell him to meet us there.”
I try to focus, but everything blurs—streetlights streaming past the window, Trifon’s face above mine, the metallic taste of fear in my mouth.
“What’s happening?” I manage, my voice thin and shaky.
Trifon’s jaw clenches. “You’re bleeding.”
I nod slowly, trying to think through the fog of pain. “Internal? External?”
“I don’t know,” he says, sounding worried. “Between your legs. A lot.”
My mind tries to put the pieces together. Nausea. Fatigue. Tender breasts. The dizziness I attributed to stress. The spotting I thought was just a light period from working too hard at the clinic. I should know what this means. I do know.
But my thoughts scatter as another wave of pain makes me curl into myself.
“Five minutes,” Trifon says, squeezing my hand. “Just hold on five more minutes.”
Time stretches and contracts. The city blurs past. Trifon’s touch is the only anchor—his thumb drawing circles on my wrist, over and over, like he’s mapping the path of my pulse.
Then we’re stopping, and Trifon is lifting me again. I force my eyes open to see a small, nondescript building. Not my clinic. Another one.
“Where?” I murmur against his neck.
“My private facility,” he says, striding toward the entrance. “It’s the best.”
Of course, he has his own secret medical facility.
“Pakhan.” A man in scrubs rushes forward, then stops short when he sees me. “This is...?”
“My wife,” Trifon says. “She’s bleeding. Help her.”
I can hear the urgency in the doctor’s voice. “This way.”
They rush me to an exam room, Trifon refusing to set me down until there’s a gurney beneath me. The nurses and doctors attach monitors, start an IV, and take vital signs. Through it all, Trifon hovers at my side.
“I need to examine her,” the doctor says to Trifon, not to me. Medical sexism at its finest. “You should wait outside.”
Trifon’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I stay.”
“Sir, it’s not—”
“I. Stay.”
The doctor sighs. “Fine. But stand at the head of the bed. Give us room to work.”
I want to be angry. I want to tell them both I’m right here, perfectly capable of making my own decisions. But another cramp seizes me, and all I can do is grit my teeth against the pain.
The doctor asks rapid-fire questions—date of my last period, any other symptoms, sexual activity. I answer mechanically, doctor-to-doctor, until he asks, “Is there any chance you could be pregnant?”
I blink, the question hitting me sideways. “No,” I say automatically. Then, “I mean—we only... once.”
Trifon goes very still beside me.
“Once is enough,” the doctor says, not unkindly. “We’ll check with the ultrasound.”
A nurse helps remove my dress, replacing it with a thin gown. The blood has soaked through to my thighs, bright red against pale skin.
Too much blood.
I’m a doctor.
I know what too much blood looks like.
The ultrasound machine appears. Cold gel on my abdomen. The wand pressing, searching. The room holds its breath.
And then—the sound. Fast, like galloping horses. A heartbeat.
Not mine.
“There,” the doctor says, pointing to the screen. “About six weeks, I’d say. Strong heartbeat.”
I stare at the tiny flicker on the screen. A baby. My baby. Our baby.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “I thought I had my period. There was spotting.”
“Implantation bleeding, perhaps,” the doctor says. “Or breakthrough bleeding. It happens to more women than you’d think, especially under stress.”
The irony doesn’t escape me. How many times have I said those exact words to worried patients? How many times have I missed my own symptoms?
“The baby is okay?” Trifon asks, his voice rough.
“For now,” the doctor nods. “But this is a threatened miscarriage. The bleeding is significant. She needs rest. No stress. No... marital activities. At least for the next few weeks.”
Trifon’s hand finds mine, squeezing hard. “What do we need to do?”
“We’ll monitor her overnight. If the bleeding stops, she can go home tomorrow, but she’ll need to take it very easy.”
The next hour passes in a blur of medications, monitors, and quiet medical discussions.
I drift, the painkillers taking effect, aware of Trifon’s constant presence.
He doesn’t leave, not even when the nurses suggest he go get coffee or make calls.
He sits beside the bed, my hand in his, watching me with an intensity that would be unnerving if I had the energy to care.
When we’re finally alone, the room dimmed and quiet, save for the steady beep of monitors, I find my voice.
“I didn’t know,” I say, the words thick in my throat. “I should have known. I’m a doctor, for God’s sake.”
Trifon leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’ve been stressed. Working too hard.”
“That doesn’t excuse missing something this big.” I stare at the ceiling, tears pricking my eyes. “We only did it once.”
“Once is all it takes,” he echoes the doctor’s words.
“I know that.” I close my eyes, exhausted. “I just never thought...”
He’s quiet for a moment, then says softly, “Neither did I.”
I turn my head to look at him. In the half-light, his face seems younger, the hard edges softened by shadows and what might be fear.
“Are you angry?” I ask.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Angry? At what?”
“This. The baby. The complication.”
“No.” He shakes his head, emphatic. “Never.”
“But it’s a mess,” I whisper. “Your plans, my career—this changes everything.”
“It changes nothing that matters.” His thumb traces circles on my wrist again, the gesture almost unconscious. “Plans can be adjusted.”
I want to believe him. I want to forget the last few hours—the gala, my family’s betrayal, Trifon’s manipulation—and just sink into the strange comfort of his presence. But I can’t.
“You used me tonight,” I say, my voice stronger than I feel. “You knew my family would be there, and you used me to make a point.”
He doesn’t deny it. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes on our joined hands. “I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That you’d choose them.” He looks up, meeting my gaze. “That, given the chance to prepare, you’d decide to go back to them.”
The confession hangs between us, raw and honest in a way Trifon rarely is. And the worst part? I’m not sure if he’s wrong.
“I wouldn’t have,” I say, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Not after everything.”
He doesn’t argue, just lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. The gesture is so tender, so unlike him, that my throat tightens.
“Rest,” he says. “We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
Despite everything, I sleep.
***
Morning brings discharge papers, prescriptions, and stern warnings from Dr. Korov. The bleeding has slowed to spotting, and the cramps have reduced to a dull ache. The baby—our baby—is holding on.
Trifon helps me into the car with gentle hands, as if I might shatter if handled too roughly. In the light of day, his face shows the strain of the night—stubble darkening his jaw, shadows beneath his eyes, a weariness I’ve never seen in him before.
“You didn’t sleep,” I observe as we pull away from the clinic.
“I’ll sleep when you’re settled.”
The drive is quiet. I watch the city pass, thoughts tumbling over each other like stones in a river. A baby. A Bratva prince or princess, with my green eyes and Trifon’s dark hair.
A child I never planned for, with a man I never chose.
And yet, my hand drifts to my stomach, protective. Maternal. Already feeling a connection to the tiny flicker of life inside me.
When we reach the house, Trifon insists on carrying me despite my protests. “Doctor’s orders,” he says, scooping me up. “Bed rest means no walking.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not what he meant when he said rest.”
“I’m not taking chances.”
He carries me upstairs to my bedroom and sets me down on the mattress with impossible gentleness, then busies himself arranging pillows behind my back, pulling blankets over my legs.
“I’m not an invalid,” I protest weakly.
“Humor me.” He straightens, looking almost uncomfortable. “Do you need anything? Water? Food? The nurse will be here soon, but—”
“Trifon.” I catch his wrist. “Sit. Please.”
He does, perching on the edge of the bed like he’s afraid to disturb me.
“We need to talk about this,” I say. “About the baby.”
His expression shifts, something fierce and protective flashing in his eyes. “What about it?”
“Are we really doing this? Having a child together?” The question sounds absurd even as I ask it. Of course we are. The decision was made the moment the test confirmed what we both suspected.
“Yes,” he says simply. “We are.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He takes my hand, his much larger one enveloping mine. “This changes things, Yulia. But not in the way you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that child—our child—will always be cared for.” His voice hardens. “They will be protected. Loved. Given everything they could ever need or want. The way I’ve protected my siblings. Only better.”
The conviction in his voice makes my chest ache. I believe him. Whatever else Trifon may be—criminal, manipulator, force of nature—he protects what’s his with a ferocity that borders on terrifying.
“Our child won’t lack for anything,” he continues, voice gentler now. “Including parents who are there. Present.”
The promise of it—this unshakable certainty that our child will be loved—eases something in me I didn’t realize was wound tight.
For all my anger at how our marriage began, for all my fear about being trapped in this life, I can’t help but be grateful that my child will have a father who would burn the world down to keep them safe.
But as I look at Trifon, at the fierce protectiveness in his eyes, I realize what’s missing from his promises.
Love for me.
Protection for the child, yes. Care for the mother of his heir, certainly. But the tenderness between us—the way he holds me, touches me, the almost-reverence in his voice when he talks of our future—it’s all centered on the baby. Not on us. Not on me.
And I realize with a dull ache that this is what our future looks like. A marriage bound by a child. A partnership based on necessity rather than choice. I will stay for the baby, and he will protect us both, but there will always be this distance—this space where love should be.
I lean back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted again.
“Thank you,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.
Trifon’s thumb traces my knuckles, the gesture so gentle it almost undoes me. “For what?”
“For caring about the baby. For promising to be there.”
Something passes across his face—too quick to read, gone before I can name it. “Always,” he says. “I will always be there. For both of you.”
Both of you. Not you. Both of you.
I should be grateful. I am grateful. But as Trifon presses a kiss to my forehead before rising to let me rest, I can’t help but wonder if gratitude is enough to build a life on.
If safety without love is all I’ll ever have.