My baby’s safe. She’ssafe.
We’re going to have a little girl.
I turn to Yulian. I can tell by the intensity in his gaze that he’s thinking the same thing.
Suddenly, our fight seems so meaningless in the face of this.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again. “This was all my fault.”
“Thought I told you to quit the apologies.”
“I can’t help it. I feel guilty.”
“Then promise me something.” He fixes me with a stare so intense, so loving, I can’t believe I ever thought he was cold. This man—thisis the Yulian I know. “From now on, no more running off playing the hero. Your life isn’t just your own, Mia. And I’m not just talking about the baby.”
The biggest, scariest part goes unspoken, but I hear it all the same.
You’re mine.
I can’t be without you.
It warms me up from the inside. Makes me feel loved again, safe again.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.
And just like that, I feel like we’re gonna be okay.
41
MIA
After the incident, Yulian switches gears.
It’s not a complete one-eighty. He doesn’t suddenly start sending me flowers, or writing me poems, or a million other things people seem to think qualify as “love.” He’s not that kind of person—and frankly, thank God for that. I’d have hated that guy.
But he’s more… tender. Careful. I wish I could say I’m not that fragile, but right now, I kind of am.
I smooth my dress over my belly. The little girl inside—my daughter, I keep realizing over and over again—kicks lightly in response, making me giggle.
It’s a quiet afternoon. Yulian is tending to the aftermath of the gala disaster, one floor below, in the StarTech portion of the building. Nikita helpfully chauffeured Eli home from school earlier. No more unsupervised outings for baby and me after our scare, and for once, I agree.
I sigh quietly and touch my belly. Guilt is eating me alive from all sides: putting my baby in danger, not being able to pick up my own kid from school… not exactly “mother of the year” behavior. I spent three months judging Brad because he couldn’t be bothered to take Eli to school himself, but now, here I am, doing the same thing. Except that, instead of a driver, I’m sending a Bratva assassin. Again—not winning any awards over here.
“Mommy, pass the blue?”
I force a smile and roll an aqua blue crayon Eli’s way. “There you go.”
He picks it up and starts filling in the sky on his coloring sheet. They don’t exactly assign homework at the preschool, but Ms. Lawrence always prints out a little something extra. And Eli, who loves to color everything and anything, is always thrilled to sit down at the counter with a new sketch to fill in. It’s his happy place—ourhappy place.
Then I hear him huffing.
“Trouble with the sky?” I joke, leaning over to see what’s got him so bothered.
But Eli doesn’t laugh. His brow is knit together, his eyes narrow and angry. “This isn’t blue; it’s green.”
“You think?” I pick up the crayon. “I mean, it’s a little greenish, but it’s still mostly blue, isn’t it?”
