Epilogue
Elena
One year later…
“You look like you’re about to pop,” Hannah observes the second I appear in her doorway.
I grip the frame for a beat, catching my breath, then attempt the impossible, angling my body in a way that makes the massive curve of my stomach slightly less… present. It doesn’t work. It never works.
“I heard that,” I mutter, shuffling forward anyway.
Each step feels slow. Careful. Like my body no longer belongs entirely to me anymore, but to the small, relentless force inside it.
By the time I reach the chair across from her desk, I lower myself into it with all the grace of a collapsing building.
“Graceful,” I mutter.
Hannah presses her lips together, failing miserably to hide her amusement. “We could have done this after you had the baby. You know…when you can breathe.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever breathe again,” I grumble, shifting in the chair, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like my ribs are being pried apart from the inside.
A sharp jab lands just beneath my right rib.
I freeze.
Then glare down at my stomach. “Unbelievable,” I whisper.
Hannah laughs. “It’s only been a few days.”
“It’s been a week,” I correct, one hand instinctively smoothing over the taut fabric stretched across my belly. “An extremely long, incredibly aggressive week.”
Another movement, this one a full roll that makes my breath hitch.
I suck in air through my teeth. “I swear he’s trying to escape through my rib cage.”
Hannah snorts.
“He doesn’t listen to me,” I continue, adjusting again, lifting slightly off the chair before settling back down with a wince. “But the second Alexei talks to him? Silence. Complete obedience.”
“Already knows who’s in charge,” she laughs dryly.
I narrow my eyes. “Traitor.”
She leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “Still think it’s a boy?”
My fingers still.
For a moment, the room fades, replaced by the memory that’s followed me ever since I first saw it. Small fingers curled tightly around Alexei’s. Cobalt blue eyes. A laugh I can’t hear but somehow feel.
A future that hasn’t happened yet… but feels more real by the second.
This baby shifts again, hard and insistent, dragging me back.
I huff out a breath. “The way this one moves? It’s like he’s an entire soccer team.” I glance up. “So yes. I do.”
Hannah studies me for a second longer, something softer flickering in her expression before she masks it with a grin.
I catch it anyway. My mood sours at the edges.
I exhale, dragging a hand down my face. “Sorry. Today’s about you.”
She blinks. Then laughs. “You’re miserable.”
“I am miserable,” I admit, a reluctant smile pulling at my lips. “But I can still have opinions.”
“Good,” she beams, reaching under her desk and hauling up a stack of magazines that lands between us with a heavy thud. “Because I need them.”
She flips one open and turns it toward me. I lean forward as much as my body allows, squinting at the page. Layers of fabric. Soft lace. A neckline that dips enough to be elegant without trying too hard.
“Ooh,” I murmur. “That’s beautiful.”
She immediately pulls it back toward herself, studying it like it might betray her. “Really?”
“Yes.”
She tilts her head. Frowns. “I don’t know if it works on my body type.”
Before I can argue, she flips to the next one.
“What about this?”
Another gown. Sleeker. More structured. A deep V that would look incredible on her.
“That one’s pretty too,” I answer.
She narrows her eyes at me. “You’ve said that about every one I show you.”
I lean back again, wincing as pressure builds low in my abdomen. “Because you would look good in all of them.”
She scoffs like I’ve insulted her. “Good? I don’t want good.” She gestures emphatically at the magazine. “I want unforgettable.”
My lips twitch.
“I want the kind of dress that makes Braydon forget how to breathe,” she sighs, eyes lighting with determination. “The kind that makes everyone else question their life choices.”
I huff out a laugh despite the discomfort twisting through me. “I’m pretty sure he already does that when you walk into a room.”
Her expression softens at that, for a second. Then she flips another page, hiding it.
I let my gaze drift, my hand unconsciously finding the ring on my finger. I twist it slowly, the familiar motion grounding me.
For a moment, I’m not here. I’m walking down an aisle. Alexei is standing at the end of it, looking at me like the entire world has narrowed to a single point: me. The way his eyes held mine. The way everything else disappeared.
My chest tightens.
Another memory cuts through.
Fletcher’s hand on my arm. The steady, reassuring weight of him beside me as he walked me down the aisle.
Gone.
The air shifts. My fingers are still on the ring.
“Well, that’s impossible,” I murmur, more to myself than to her.
Hannah looks up immediately. “Oh? So, you weren’t your most beautiful on your wedding day?”
I blink, caught. A trap. Definitely a trap.
I sigh. “That’s not what I meant.”
My heart stutters at the memory anyway. Alexei’s hand at my waist, his breath warm against my skin during our first dance.
“What I mean,” I say carefully, “is that Braydon already thinks you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.”
Hannah’s eyes narrow. “Did you make that up on the spot?”
I straighten, offended. “I would never.”
She studies me. Then breaks into a smile that’s too soft to tease. “Okay,” she murmurs, flipping another page. She pauses. “This one,” she offers, turning the magazine toward me.
I lean forward… and the world tilts. A sharp, searing pain slices through my ribs.
My breath catches, the air knocked clean out of me. My hand flies to my stomach as I double slightly in the chair. “Ah?—”
“El?” Hannah’s voice sharpens instantly. “El, what’s wrong?”
I can’t answer. Another wave crashes through me, stronger, deeper, like something inside me is shifting in a way it never has before.
My fingers dig into my belly. My jaw clenches.
Breathe.
I know I’m supposed to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. But all I can feel is pressure. Heat. Pain.
“Elena?” Hannah’s voice is closer now. Urgent.
My vision blurs at the edges.
“Braydon!” she calls.
The door flies open.
I barely register him crossing the room before another cry tears out of me, raw and uncontrollable.
“I think…it’s the baby,” Hannah exclaims, though her voice wavers.
Braydon is already moving. Calm. Focused. Always calm. His hand steadies my shoulder, firm and grounding. “Look at me,” he instructs.
I try. I really try. But another contraction, stronger than the last, steals everything.
My grip tightens around Hannah’s hand.
She yelps.
“Sorry,” I gasp, even as I don’t let go.
“You’re fine,” she grimaces, though her fingers twitch under mine.
Braydon is speaking into his comm, voice sharp and efficient. Words blur together, medical, immediate, now. Someone contact Alexei.
Then he’s in front of me again. “We’re getting you up,” he announces.
I nod, or try to.
He helps me to my feet, one arm braced under mine.
I take a step, and freeze.
Warmth. A sudden, unmistakable rush.
My breath catches.
All three of us look down.
“…that’s not—” Hannah starts.
Another pain hits, lower this time, heavier, dragging a gasp from my lungs as my hand flies back to my stomach. Pressure builds, intense and undeniable.
My eyes snap up, wide. “Oh—” The realization settles, sharp and absolute. “It’s time.”
Everything moves at once after that.
Hands guiding me. Voices overlapping. The world narrowing to steps, to breaths, to the relentless rhythm of my body taking over.
By the time we reach the ambulance, I’m barely aware of anything except the next wave coming.
The doors slam shut behind us.
And as the siren pierces the air, I grip Hannah’s hand again, my other braced against Braydon’s as another contraction builds, and let go.
He’s trying to kill me.
The thought doesn’t stay in my head, it claws its way out, breaking free on a ragged cry as another contraction finally loosens its grip on my body.
My chest heaves, lungs burning, every inch of me slick with heat and effort.
Sweat drips from my temples into my ears, into my eyes, stinging, blurring everything.
A hand, steady, practiced, slides my damp hair back from my face. Cool fingers against overheated skin. I cling to that small mercy, but it barely registers before something tightens low in my abdomen again, coiling, gathering.
No. No, not yet.
A whimper escapes me before I can stop it. The pressure builds faster this time, sharper, like my body has forgotten how to ease into the pain and now only knows how to hurl me straight into it.
“I hate you right now,” I grind out, my voice thin and strained, each word dragged through clenched teeth.
There’s a shift beside me, a quiet, amused breath, then she steps away, yielding her place.
“Good luck, Papa,” Hannah murmurs, her tone laced with teasing warmth.
And then he’s there. Always there.
His fingers close around mine, a reassuring warmth amid the chaos. I latch onto him instinctively, fingers curling tight, as the contraction crests. A cry tears out of me, raw and unrestrained, as I squeeze with everything I have, as if I can transfer even a fraction of this pain into him.
“What can I do?” he asks, his voice steady but edged with something I know too well: helplessness.
The nurse’s soft chuckle drifts through the haze. “You’re doing it, Dad. Stay with her. Keep holding her hand.”
Stay with her. As if he would ever do anything else.
Another wave crashes over me, stealing the air from my lungs. My back arches, then slams into the mattress. I gasp, trembling, barely able to form words.
“Your son is trying to kill me,” I groan, my head rolling weakly against the pillow.
My free hand shoots out blindly until it catches the front of his dress shirt. His jacket and tie were discarded. I fist the fabric and drag him closer, needing him near, closer than near.
“Tell me,” I gasp, breath hitching, “you didn’t come out six feet four and fully trained for combat.”