Epilogue #2
“I know.” I reached for her hand. “But I got here.”
Her fingers tightened around mine. “You got yourself here.”
“Vadim might argue with that.”
“Vadim can argue with a wall and make the wall apologize.”
Galina nodded once. “This is true.”
I laughed again, and this time the sound moved through me without scraping against anything old.
A door opened near the private elevator.
Lev stepped in first, in a dark navy suit, his posture easy and his eyes doing their usual sweep of the penthouse. Petya followed him, carrying a long white box tied with a champagne ribbon in both hands like he’d been trusted with a sleeping infant.
My brother had grown into his own face again.
The bruise was gone. The restless, cornered look hadn’t vanished completely, but it no longer sat in the front of his eyes.
His hair was neatly cut. His suit fit him well enough to tell me Galina or Vadim had interfered.
He still looked twenty, still proud, still too quick to take blame into his bones, but his shoulders were straighter now.
It wasn’t arrogant.
It was earned.
“Don’t drop it,” Lev said.
“I’m not going to drop it.”
“You said that about the account ledger.”
Petya’s jaw tightened. “That was one coffee, and the ledger survived.”
“The ledger smelled like coffee for two days.”
“It improved the ledger.”
Lev looked at me. “He has commentary now.”
“He always had commentary,” I said. “The problem was where he aimed it.”
Petya’s ears reddened. “I brought the blanket Galina ordered.”
Galina rose. “You brought the blanket Oksana ordered because I approved the embroidery.”
Petya held the box out.
Oksana took it with both hands and opened the lid. Inside lay a cream cashmere baby blanket with a tiny gold S embroidered at one corner. No blue. No pink. Just Sorin subtlety, which apparently meant something cost more than my old monthly rent but whispered about it politely.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
Petya looked at my stomach, then quickly at my face. “For the baby.”
“Yes,” I said gently. “For the baby.”
His throat moved.
The first time Petya saw the ultrasound picture, he’d gone pale.
“Can the baby hear yet?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “Soon.”
He stared at the grainy little shape on the glossy paper, then bent toward my stomach before I realized what he meant to do.
“I’m sorry I almost got you killed before you existed,” he said.
Vadim had stood behind me in complete silence, his hand on my shoulder. I’d cried. Vadim had looked at the ceiling as if asking God for patience. Lev handed Petya a glass of water. “Apologies work better when they don’t traumatize pregnant women,” he said.
Since then, Petya had been trying quietly, without drama.
Vadim didn’t allow drama where discipline would do.
Petya worked under Lev in a low-level Sorin role that involved paperwork, errands, inventory, and learning exactly how many consequences a man could avoid by not being stupid in the first place.
He was watched. He was corrected. He was protected.
He was alive.
That was enough for me to start with.
Petya came to the sofa and stopped in front of me.
“You look nice,” he said.
Tamar made a strangled sound.
Petya glared at her. “What?”
“Nothing. That was very moving. Please continue with the poetry.”
“I hate all of you.”
“You love all of us,” I said.
He looked at me, and his face changed. “Yes.”
My throat tightened.
I reached up. Petya bent immediately and hugged me with careful arms. His hands stayed high on my back, gentle where he used to be all elbows and panic.
“I’m proud of you,” I whispered.
His breath caught once beside my hair. “I’m trying.”
“I know.”
He pulled back before he could lose control of his face in front of Lev, which was probably wise. Lev saw everything and used mercy sparingly.
The elevator opened again.
The penthouse changed before I turned.
Conversations softened. The household attendants straightened. Lev’s attention sharpened and settled. Even Galina’s eyes shifted, not with fear, but acknowledgment.
Vadim walked in wearing a charcoal suit, a white shirt open at the throat, and his wedding ring on the hand he used to own rooms. He was still broad enough to make the doorway look too narrow.
Still controlled. Still beautiful in a way that felt less like charm and more like a warning carved into a man.
He was Pakhan now.
Everyone knew it.
I knew it too, but when his eyes found me, I saw my husband first.
He crossed the penthouse without looking at the flowers, the cake, the guests beginning to arrive behind him, or the table Galina had spent two days commanding into perfection.
He came straight to me.
“Wife,” he said.
The word warmed low in my stomach before it reached my face.
“Husband.”
His gaze dropped to my bare feet under the cashmere throw. “Good. You’re sitting.”
“Your mother trapped me.”
“My mother is wise.”
Galina made a soft sound. “Tell her about the shoes.”
Vadim crouched in front of me, careless of the expensive suit, and lifted the edge of the throw to inspect my feet.
I stared at him. “Vadim.”
His thumb brushed over my ankle. “Are they sore?”
“No.”
“Swollen?”
“No.”
“Tired?”
“A little.”
He looked up.
That was all. Just those gray eyes fixed on me from below, his hand warm around my ankle, his ring cool against my skin.
Everyone could see him. Let them see him. Three months ago, men had watched me walk onto a stage and thought looking made them powerful.
Now Vadim knelt at his pregnant wife’s feet in a penthouse full of his people, and no one mistook the gesture for weakness.
He pressed a kiss to the inside of my ankle, just above the delicate strap of skin my dress left bare.
Heat moved through me, slow and sudden.
“Vadim,” I said again, lower this time.
His mouth curved. “That one sounded different.”
“We have guests.”
“We have doors.”
Tamar coughed. Petya made a distressed noise and turned around. Galina looked at the ceiling with the long-suffering expression of a woman who wanted grandchildren but preferred not to be reminded how they happened.
Vadim stood and bent close to my ear. “After the cake, I’m taking you upstairs.”
“You’re hosting a baby shower.”
“My mother is hosting a baby shower. I’m attending under protest.”
“You commissioned half of it.”
“I enjoy providing for you. That doesn’t mean I enjoy small sandwiches.”
I smiled. “You ate six last time.”
“They disappeared.”
“Very suspicious.”
His hand slid to the small curve of my stomach. He touched me there with the same reverence every time, thumb resting lightly until I breathed again.
My breath shortened.
Vadim’s gaze moved over my face. The teasing left him.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’m good.”
“Nadia.”
I put my hand over his. “I’m happy.”
His fingers spread wider beneath mine.
The baby was too small for real kicks yet. I knew that. The first flutters might come soon, maybe not for a few more weeks. Still, sometimes I felt a strange, delicate shift inside me, too early to name and too real to ignore.
Vadim waited for each possible flutter with one hand ready and his whole attention fixed on me.
“I want to know,” he said.
“The gender?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you liked controlling everything.”
“I do. This is unpleasant.”
I laughed softly. “Poor Pakhan.”
His eyes narrowed. “Careful, wife. I’m still dangerous.”
“I know.” I leaned closer. “That’s one of the reasons I married you.”
His thumb moved once over my stomach. “Only one?”
“One of the better reasons.”
The heat in his eyes deepened, and for one dangerous second, I thought he really might carry me out of the baby shower before the first guest had a sandwich.
Oksana saved us by appearing beside the cake table with the calm urgency of a woman whose schedule had reached the sacred portion.
“Mrs. Sorin,” she said to Galina, then looked at me with a softer expression. “The baker confirmed everything is ready.”
Vadim’s hand tightened over my belly.
I looked at him. “Still unpleasant?”
“Very.”
“Good.”
He helped me stand as if I were carrying the future of his bloodline and also possibly made of spun sugar. I let him because it pleased him, and because his hands on me still made something inside me go liquid and bright.
Guests gathered around the long table. Sorin men with careful faces.
Women in pale dresses and silk suits. Tamar at my side.
Petya near Lev, trying to look composed and failing every time he glanced at the cake.
Galina stood at the head of the table with Oksana beside her, her expression proud enough to make the ceiling feel higher.
The cake was elegant and almost absurdly beautiful. Three tiers of ivory buttercream, faint gold leaf, sugared roses, and a smooth champagne ribbon around the base. No hint of what waited inside.
Oksana handed Vadim the silver knife.
He took it, then looked at me. “Together.”
My throat tightened.
I placed my hand over his on the handle.
Everyone fell quiet.
For one sharp second, I saw another place. A stage. Pale fabric on my skin. Men watching. Gennady smiling like the world had already bent for him.
Then Vadim’s hand covered mine completely.
The penthouse smelled of roses, sugar, warm pastry, and my husband’s cologne. Tamar stood close enough that her sleeve brushed mine. Petya watched me with his heart in his face. Galina’s pearls gleamed under the chandelier. Lev stood by the door, steady and silent. Oksana held a white plate ready.
No one here had bought me.
No one here owned my fear.
Vadim lowered his mouth near my temple. “Cut, moya zhena.”
My wife.
I pressed the knife down with him.
The blade slid through buttercream and sponge. Oksana eased the first slice free and tipped it onto the plate.
Blue filled the center.
Bright, unmistakable blue.
The silence broke all at once.
Tamar gasped, clapped both hands over her mouth, and made a sound that was half laugh, half sob.
Petya whispered, “A boy.”
Galina closed her eyes.