Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ella
New York Fashion Week, satellite venue. A converted warehouse in Brooklyn.
High ceilings. Exposed brick. Industrial lighting hanging overhead.
The runway cut through the center, flanked by rows of packed seats.
I stood backstage, walkie-talkie in hand, palms slick with sweat.
"Ella, breathe," Sasha said beside me, squeezing my shoulder. "You've been preparing for a year. You've got this."
"But—"
"No buts," she cut me off. "Your designs are incredible. The models are ready. Misha's ready—"
"Misha!" I jerked upright. "Is she dressed?"
"She's dressed," Sasha said. "Porter was grooming her two minutes ago."
Relief flooded through me.
Today marked my brand's debut show.
"Misha"—a pet fashion line named after her.
From concept to launch, it took a full year.
Sergei provided the seed money, found me a studio, and assembled a team.
But every design was mine.
Every piece, every detail—I'd drawn them myself, line by line.
And today—
Today was judgment day.
"Five minutes," the stage manager's voice crackled through the walkie-talkie.
I pulled in a deep breath.
"Copy."
"Mama!"
A voice called from the backstage entrance.
I turned.
Sergei walked toward me, our daughter in his arms.
She was thirteen months old now—wispy auburn curls, eyes a gray-green that blended mine and Sergei's into something unique, like water in a forest lake.
She wore a cream onesie from my collection, a tiny gold S embroidered on the chest.
Right now, she waved her little hands, babbling away. When she spotted me, her face split into a grin, showing two brand-new teeth.
"Sofia," I crossed to them, kissing her cheek. "Mama's almost done."
She babbled something, tiny fingers grabbing my hair.
"Ow—"
"Let go, Sofia," Sergei said gently, prying her fingers loose. "Don't pull Mama's hair."
She pouted, looking momentarily wounded, then broke into another smile.
Sergei wore a charcoal suit today, white shirt, no tie—top two buttons undone. His silver hair was perfectly groomed.
He looked—
Still gorgeous.
Even more so than two years ago.
Probably because fatherhood had added something to his eyes that wasn't there before.
Something soft. Something warm.
"Nervous?" he asked.
"Terrified," I admitted.
"Don't be," he said, his free hand finding mine. "You're going to kill it."
"How do you know?"
"Because I believe in you," he said, those gray eyes locked on mine. "Ella, you're the best designer there is."
My heart skipped.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Don't thank me," he said. "You earned this yourself."
Sofia squirmed in his arms, little hands patting his face, babbling insistently.
"Okay, okay," he looked down at her, his voice going soft. "Daddy hears you. We'll come to Mama in a minute."
She immediately settled, burying her face against his neck.
I watched them both, warmth spreading through my chest.
Two years ago, I couldn't have imagined this life.
Two years ago, I was drowning in debt, scrambling for work, lost about the future.
And now—
Now I had my own brand, a beautiful daughter, and—
And him.
My husband.
Sergei Volkov.
"One minute," the walkie-talkie crackled.
"I need to get to the front," I said. "You two should go to your seats."
"Alright," Sergei said. "Good luck."
He leaned down, brushing a kiss across my lips.
Sofia saw and babbled, leaning in to plant a wet kiss on my cheek.
I couldn't help but laugh, kissing her little face back.
"I'll be watching from the front row," Sergei said.
I nodded, watching them leave.
Deep breath.
You've got this, Ella.
Music swelled.
Lights dimmed.
The runway blazed to life.
The first model appeared—a golden retriever in a deep red blazer.
Gasps rippled through the audience.
I stood backstage, eyes glued to the monitor.
One after another.
Goldens, labs, corgis, poodles—
Each wearing my designs.
Tiny blazers, little dresses, small trench coats, miniature sweaters.
The applause grew louder with each pass.
Finally—
The last model.
Misha.
She wore a charcoal ceremonial coat with a gold bow tie at the chest, smoke-gray contrast piping along the collar.
Head high, she walked the runway with elegant precision.
The audience erupted.
Tears pricked my eyes.
Misha.
My Misha.
She'd fully recovered.
The surgery was a success. Three months of recovery, and now she was back—the same energetic, tail-wagging golden she'd always been.
She reached the center stage, stopped, and turned a full circle.
Just like we'd rehearsed.
Perfect.
The music stopped.
Full lights.
I took a deep breath and stepped onto the runway.
The applause intensified.
I stood at center stage, looking out at the crowd.
Front row—
Sergei sat there, holding Sofia.
Our little girl stared around with those gray-green eyes, tiny hands waving.
Sasha sat beside him, clapping like crazy.
Sergei's gaze found mine, those gray eyes filled with pride.
Tears spilled over.
But this time, they were happy tears.
"Thank you all," I said into the mic, voice shaking. "Thank you for coming to my first show."
"This brand is called Misha, named after my best friend," I said, looking down at Misha beside me. "She was there through my hardest times and witnessed my happiest moments."
"I hope every pet can wear clothes that make them comfortable and beautiful," I said. "Because they deserve the best."
Another round of applause.
I walked offstage, Misha trotting beside me.
Sergei was already standing, Sofia in one arm, walking toward me.
"Congratulations," he said, eyes full of warmth. "Ella Volkova, you did it."
I threw my arms around him—carefully, not wanting to squish Sofia.
Sofia babbled between us, little hands clutching my clothes.
"Thank you," I said. "Sergei, thank you for believing in me."
"Don't thank me," he said. "You earned this."
Sasha rushed over, crushing me in a hug.
"You did it!" she shrieked. "Ella, you actually did it!"
Misha circled our legs, tail spinning like a propeller.
"Misha was amazing too," I crouched down, scratching her head. "Wasn't she?"
She licked my hand, making happy whining sounds.
After the crowd dispersed, our family—plus Sasha and Misha—walked out of the venue.
Outside, Brooklyn streets were touched with spring.
Trees budded green along the sidewalks, the air smelling of fresh earth and grass.
"Hungry?" Sergei asked.
"Starving," I said. "Absolutely starving."
"Then let's—"
"Wait," I interrupted.
He stopped, looking at me.
Sasha caught on immediately. "I'll go check out that window display. You two talk."
She took Sofia and walked off.
I drew a deep breath.
There was something I needed to say. Now.
"Sergei," I said.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for supporting me this year," I said. "Thank you for believing in my dream, thank you for—"
"Ella," he cut me off. "I told you, don't thank me."
"No, let me finish," I said. "Thank you for giving me this family, for giving me Sofia, for giving me—for giving me a life I never dared imagine."
He looked at me, something tender in those gray eyes.
"But you deserve all of it," he said.
"I know," I said. "But I still want to say thank you."
He handed Sofia back to Sasha as she returned.
"Hold her for a second."
Sasha took Sofia, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "What's happening?"
Sergei didn't answer.
He turned to face me.
Then—
He dropped to one knee.
My brain went blank.
"Sergei, what are you—"
He pulled a small box from his pocket.
Deep blue velvet. He opened it, revealing a ring inside.
Platinum, clean lines, centered with an emerald—deep green, like a forest.
"Two years ago, I proposed to you from a hospital bed," he said. "I didn't even have a ring."
"Now," he looked up at me, those gray eyes reflecting my face, "I want to ask again."
"Ella Volkova," he said. "Even though we're already married, even though we already have Sofia—"
"I still want to ask," he paused. "Will you keep being my wife? Through my best times and my worst?"
Tears streamed down my face.
"You—" my voice broke. "You absolute bastard—"
"Yes, I'm a bastard," he said, that devastating smile tugging at his lips. "But I'm your bastard."
I dropped to my knees, meeting his eyes level.
"I will," I said. "Sergei, I always will."
He slipped the ring from the box and onto my finger.
Perfect fit.
Like he always knew.
"This color," I stared at the emerald. "It's..."
"Your favorite green," he said. "Like a forest."
I threw myself into his arms, kissing him.
Sasha clapped wildly, Sofia waving her little hands in her arms, babbling excitedly.
Misha circled our feet, tail wagging like it might take flight.
Passersby stopped, starting to clap too.
"Congratulations!"
"So romantic!"
Sergei and I stood, his arm around my waist, my head on his shoulder.
"Sergei," I said.
"Yeah?"
"I'm so happy."
"Me too," he said, kissing my forehead. "Дорогая, me too."
Sasha handed Sofia back.
I took our little girl, and she immediately babbled, reaching for my face with soft, warm hands.
"Mama loves you," I kissed her forehead.
Sergei wrapped his arms around us both, kissing Sofia's cheek too.
Misha rubbed against our legs, making happy snuffling sounds.
Brooklyn streetlights stretched our shadows long, overlapping on the pavement.
New York's spring dusk began to fall.
But for us, every day was a new beginning.
Every day was full of hope.
Sergei held my hand, I held Sofia, and Sasha walked beside us snapping photos.
Misha led the way, guiding us through Brooklyn's streets toward home.
This was our story.
It started with one wrong night, went through danger, betrayal, life and death.
But in the end—
We made it.
Me, Sergei, Sofia, and Misha.
We were a family.
Forever a family.
That night, after Sofia fell asleep, Sergei and I stood side by side by her crib.
Watching her tiny body rise and fall with each breath, little fists curled beside her cheek.
"She's growing so fast," I whispered.
"Yeah," Sergei said, arm around my waist. "Feels like yesterday we brought her home from the hospital."
"You remember that day?" I asked. "You were so nervous your hands were shaking."
"I wasn't shaking."
"You were," I said. "I saw it. Sergei Volkov, New York's scariest mafia boss, holding a six-pound baby, hands trembling like leaves."
He sighed. "Okay, fine. I was nervous."
"Why?"
"Because she was so small," he said. "I was terrified I'd hurt her."
I leaned against his shoulder. "But you didn't. You're a great father."
"Only because you taught me," he said, kissing my forehead.
Misha padded in from the doorway, moving quietly, resting her head on the crib rail, watching Sofia.
"She's guarding her," I said.
"She always has," Sergei said. "Since the day she was born."
We watched for a while longer, then tiptoed out.
The bedroom light was still on.
Sergei closed the door, turning to face me.
"Ella," he said.
"Yeah?"
"I have something for you."
He walked to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out a folder.
"What's this?"
"Open it."
I took it, opening the cover.
Inside was a contract.
Studio lease agreement.
Address: SoHo, Manhattan—a location I'd dreamed of but never dared imagine.
"What is—"
"Your studio," he said. "The current space is too small for your team. This new one has three floors—showroom, design studio, warehouse."
"Sergei."
"And," he continued, pulling another sheet from the folder. "These are investors I contacted. They're very interested in your brand."
I scanned the names.
All major industry investors.
"When did you arrange all this?"
"Past few months," he said. "I knew your brand needed to scale, so..."
I threw myself into his arms.
"Thank you," I said, tears spilling again. "Sergei, thank you."
"Don't cry," he said, hand rubbing my back. "You earned this, Ella."
"But—"
"No buts," he said. "Your designs are incredible. I've seen how hard you work."
I looked up at him.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you too," he said, leaning down to kiss me.
The kiss was gentle, deep.
His hand slipped under my sweater, palm against my waist.
"Sergei."
"I want you," he said, voice low.
"But Sofia—"
"She's sound asleep," he said. "And Misha's watching her."
He pressed me onto the bed, fingers unbuttoning my sweater.
That night, we made love until late.
Slow, tender, like rediscovering each other's bodies.
When I came, I bit his shoulder, trying not to cry out.
He buried his face in my neck, murmuring in Russian.
I didn't understand the words, but I knew they were sweet nothings.
Words meant only for me.
Afterward, we lay side by side, his arm around me, my head on his chest.
"Ella," he said.
"Yeah?"
"This past year has been the happiest of my life."
I looked up at him.
"Me too," I said.
He kissed me softly.
Outside, New York's night rolled on as always.
But in this room, it was just us.
And Sofia sleeping next door.
And Misha watching over her.
This was my home.
This was my life.
A year ago, I couldn't have imagined this kind of happiness.
But now—
Now it was real.
I placed my hand on Sergei's chest, feeling his heartbeat.
Steady. Strong.
"Sergei," I said.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for surviving."
His hand covered mine.
"Thank you for waiting," he said. "Thank you for not giving up on me."
I closed my eyes, burying my face against his neck.
"I'll never give up on you," I said. "Sergei Volkov, you're stuck with me."
He laughed, chest rumbling, arm tightening around me.
"Never," he said. "Not in this lifetime."
Outside, New York slowly quieted.
But I knew when the sun rose tomorrow, it would roar to life again.
And we—
We'd keep living our lives.
Ordinary, happy, full of love.
Me, Sergei, Sofia, and Misha.
Our story was still being written.
THE END