Everything blurs—doctors, needles, shifting positions, the hum of a fetal monitor. The epidural helps. But then the pressure builds again. Insistent. Unrelenting.
I’m told to push.
Konstantin is at my side the entire time, one arm bracing my back, the other gripping my hand. He speaks Russian at one point, a quiet mantra I don’t understand but feel in my bones. A blurry, silly thought goes through my head: at some point I should start Russian lessons, at the very least to understand his mumbling.
He’s scared.
He thinks I’ll break.
But I don’t. Because Ihaveto do this.
The pain hits a fever pitch.
I scream.
And then—a cry. Not mine, surprisingly.
A real, sharp, furiousnewcry.
Our baby.
“Congratulations,” the OB says softly. “It’s a boy.”
The room vanishes.
All I see is the tiny, wet, furious thing placed gently on my chest. He’s squalling, fists balled, face scrunched and red.
He’s perfect.
Konstantin makes a sound I’ve never heard before. A shuddering, soft gasp. I turn to find his hand over his mouth, eyes glassy, staring like he’s witnessing something sacred.
“Here,” nurse Tabitha says, handing him a pair of shears. The look on her face, one raised brow—I laugh, realizing that I’m not the only one aware they’re witnessing the breakdown of a powerful man.
The softening of him.
He cuts the cord with hands that only tremble slightly, then he leans down and presses the gentlest kiss in the world to our son’s damp head.
“My boy,” he murmurs. “My son. My little wolf.”
And I cry.
I’ve never seen him look like this—like a man on his knees at the feet of something he worships. It’s in this moment that I know that no matter what kind of world we came from, our son is going to be so, so loved.
Epilogue
6 Months Later
I walk through the glass doors of Martynov Global Holdings with a baby on my hip, a nanny trailing behind me, and the same confidence I used to fake—only now it’s real.
Samuil stirs softly, blinking up at me with bleary, gray-hazel eyes. He’s the spitting image of his father: sharp little brow, furrowed even in sleep, lips pursed like he’s already judging the building’s profit margins. He’s wearing a tiny cashmere onesie and a look of vague distrust, like he’s already onto the world.
Chrissy gasps when she sees me in the massive foyer. “Audrey! Are youkiddingme right now?”
I smile and shift Sam to the other arm so I can accept the full-body hug she barrels into me with. Her hair smells like coconut and ink. It grounds me in something familiar, something good.
“Back in the flesh,” I say. “I figured it was time.”
She leans back and grins at Sam. “And you brought the most important Martynov of all!”
