Chapter 28 #2
I laughed hard enough it tugged my wound. She lunged forward and pressed her hand to my shoulder immediately, eyes flashing with worry. Our faces ended up too close, breaths tangled.
"My turn," I said.
Her pupils widened. "The doctor said you can't strain yourself."
"I can use my right hand."
"After you heal," she said.
Then she turned and bolted out of the bathroom.
A week later, for the prenatal appointment, I had Feodor confirm the doctor's credentials, the hospital entrances, the parking layout, and the emergency routes.
He set the file on the table. "Are you accompanying your wife to an appointment, sir, or are you planning to occupy the hospital?"
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
"I'll remind security not to bring rifles into the waiting room."
His gaze slid to the five parenting books spread out on the table. Three were bristling with tabs. The other two I'd bought because they contradicted the first three and I needed to cross-check.
Elena said pregnancy wasn't an organized war. It didn't require twelve contingency plans.
I'd cut it down to eight.
In the waiting room, I wrote an eleventh question in my notebook. Elena glanced over.
"How soon after birth can babies recognize color?" she read. "Isn't that a little early?"
"Education can't wait until he's born."
"He's smaller than my palm right now."
"All the more reason to start ahead."
She leaned back in her chair. "Poor kid."
"He'll get the best."
"Including a schedule planned before he even exists?"
I closed the notebook. "If you don't like it, you can cut it down."
She blinked, caught off guard.
The old me would've told her what was right. I still wanted to stuff every unknown into a plan, but I was starting to remember this child belongs to us.
Elena laid her hand over my notebook. "Don't cut it. Just... leave him a little freedom."
"Like you?" I asked.
"Preferably earlier than I got it."
The words dug straight into my chest.
"He will," I said. "He'll have it."
In the exam room, the doctor moved the probe. Then a rapid, steady heartbeat filled the space.
I went still.
Elena squeezed my hand. Tears shone in her eyes, but she smiled anyway.
"Is that him?" I asked.
The doctor smiled. "That's your baby."
Our baby.
My father had never looked at me like that. I'd been terrified I'd become him someday, but blood isn't a sentence, and fear isn't an excuse.
I can choose to be someone else.
"Is he healthy? She's been more tired lately; paint fumes make her nauseous. Does she need to stop working? How long can she stand every day? Sleep, and—"
Elena pinched my hand. "One at a time."
Back at the manor, I upgraded the studio ventilation, locked the harsher materials in an exhaust cabinet, but I didn't make her stop painting. I just dragged a chair in and sat there. When she hit twenty-seven minutes standing, I checked my watch.
"You're annoying," she said.
"The doctor said you can't stand too long."
"You timed me?"
I tugged my cuff down. "Habit."
She set her brush aside and walked up to me. "Do your books say excessive anxiety makes a wife want to stab her husband with a paintbrush?"
I caught her waist and pulled her onto my lap. She protected my injured shoulder automatically, and a few strands of hazel hair brushed my jaw.
"You should rest," I said.
"You should too."
"Then we rest together."
"In the studio?" Her face flushed.
"I just want you to sit for a minute."
"Your hand isn't saying that."
My thumb slid slowly along her waist. "It's making sure you don't fall."
"Liar."
She kissed me once, quick. Then she stood up before I could deepen it.
"Break's over."
I watched her pick up the brush again and decided I was going to reread the doctor's intimacy guidelines tonight.
Three weeks later, the exhibition opened on schedule.
The original venue, lighting, and insurance hadn't been good enough for her. I didn't outright buy the gallery. I asked first if she would allow the Morozov Foundation to sponsor it.
"Are you going to interfere with the selection?" she asked.
"I'm not."
"I decide the curation?"
"All of it."
"Then what do you do?"
"I'll upgrade the lighting, shipping, and insurance. I'll reserve slots for kids from the community studio. And I'll make sure none of your work ever gets destroyed again."
"And security?"
"You won't see them."
She sighed. "Fine."
The paintings on the walls held flour-dusted hands kneading dough, streetlights in rainwater, a kid's crooked sun, an empty chair beside half-finished coffee.
She painted little things time tried to steal.
So every piece made people stop.
On opening night, critics, collectors, reporters, and regular visitors packed the room. Neighborhood kids surrounded her, calling her name. She wore a dark green dress and crouched down to talk to them like she forgot she was the center of the night.
A collector wanted to buy the entire community portrait series.
"Not for sale," Elena said. "After the show, they go back to the community."
"I can pay more."
"It's not about money."
Her voice stayed calm, but she didn't move an inch. In the end, he bought another piece. Then more offers started piling up for the curator.
They finally saw her talent.
I'd once thrown her supplies into the rain. Standing in a gallery lit up for her, I understood exactly how stupid I'd been.
Yegor showed up late. He congratulated Elena and pulled her into a brief hug. My jaw tightened instantly.
Feodor murmured beside me, "Parenting books don't cover assaulting a romantic rival at an art show."
"He hugged her too long."
"Less than two seconds."
In the end, I did nothing.
I looked toward the center of the crowd. Elena answered a reporter, eyes bright, spine straight.
As the night wound down, the curator asked her to speak.
"I used to think what got left behind had to be pretty enough, expensive enough, to deserve being remembered," she said, looking at the paintings. "Then I realized what people can't let go of is usually small. Someone holding your hand. A light left on for you. A sentence you never got to finish."
Her gaze cut through the room and found me.
Applause rose.
I waited until it died completely before I walked out.
She saw the box in my hand and stopped breathing.
The first wedding, she'd worn a dress that didn't fit, shoved toward me by her family. I hadn't asked if she wanted any of it. I'd slid a ring onto her finger like I was stamping a contract.
That hadn't been a proposal.
I dropped to one knee in front of her.
The gallery fell dead silent.
"Last time, you didn't get a choice. And I didn't really see you."
I opened the box. Two slender platinum bands crossed like lines that finally met. A warm gold diamond had been cut to match her hazel eyes, and inside the setting, a tiny paintbrush and her name had been engraved.
There isn't another ring like it in the world.
Just like her.
"I can't rewrite the past," I said. "But every day after this, you decide."
Tears slid out of her eyes.
"Elena Rossi," I said, "will you choose me again?"
I paused for a beat.
She cried and laughed at the same time. "You're still so bossy."
"I'm working on it."
"Your progress sucks."
"Then I'm going to need a long time."
"How long?"
"A lifetime."
She held out her left hand.
"Then start today," she said.
My heart slammed once, heavy. "That's a yes?"
"Yes, Kiryan." She looked at me. "I will."
Cheers and clapping exploded at once.
The ring slid onto her finger like it belonged there. She leaned down and kissed me. I stood and held her by the waist, forcing myself not to deepen it. Her fingers threaded into my hair, the ring brushing my ear, cold for a few seconds before my body warmed it.
"This time, I get to plan the wedding," she said, forehead to mine.
"Every part of it," I said. "You decide."
Her smile made my instincts go on alert.