“What are you thinking?”
“That I’m going to have to Google how to keep rosemary alive in a bigger kitchen,” I say. He chuckles, humor in his eyes. “And that we’re going to need to get to work designing a nursery.”
“I’d love nothing more.”
I lift my left hand, turning it so the ring throws a small star onto the ceiling, carving a bright dot into the dark. Below my palm, our child shifts.
“Hi,” I whisper. “Welcome home.”
Vlad slides his hand over mine.
We remain like that for a while, breathing in sync in a room full of love and excitement for the future to come.
EPILOGUE I
TERESA
By month eight, I feel like I need a damn forklift to get around.
Vlad and I were married at the courthouse by a long-time friend of Vlad’s who just happens to be a judge. Dimitri was the only one in attendance. It was quick, discreet, and perfect.
I lower myself into the leather chair in Vlad’s office, putting my swollen ankles on the little ottoman he referred to as a “strategic footrest” when he bought it for me. Autumn sunlight spills through the glass walls. From up here, the city looks calm, harmless, and colorful.
“Agenda,” I say, tapping the tablet. “Nine a.m.: call with Odessa freight. Ten: compliance with legal. Eleven-thirty: lunch with Councilman Lyons. Two p.m.: update with Volkov’s nephew. Four: foundation board.”
Vlad listens, steady as ever, already planning three steps ahead. “Excellent,” he says. Then he leans back, smiles, and steeples his fingers. “Now for my agenda. You’re fired.”
I stare at him a beat. “What?”
“Effective immediately.” He pulls a document from his side drawer titled: Termination—Personal Assistant. It’s already signed.
“You can’t fire me,” I say, half-laughing. “I’m practically the most essential employee here.”
He laughs whole-heartedly. “All the same, I don’t want my wife carrying my calendar and our child at the same time.”
“I’m not built for stay-at-home life,” I tell him, patting my belly. “I love you and this baby, but I’m not spending my days making banana bread.”
He smirks. “Terms?”
“After maternity leave, I want to work on your crypto portfolio. You’ve got wallets everywhere with no proper controls. I want the job. I want to build it, secure it, and make it run clean. Part-time. From home.”
He chuckles, like I just quoted his own notes back to him. Then he pulls out a folder, sliding it to me. “Director, Digital Assets Strategy,” the title page reads. Remote work. Profit share. Flexible hours. Infant-friendly scheduling is listed as one of the benefits.
“You wrote this?”
“Two months ago,” he states simply.
“Vlad.” My eyes sting. “You beautiful, controlling man.”
He rests a hand on my stomach, the baby kicking hard in reply. It wrecks him every time. “Deal?”
“Deal,” I whisper, shaking his hand. As we release, warmth floods down my legs. I freeze. “Ummm.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
“So either I just peed,” I say very calmly, “or my water broke.”
We both look at the growing wetness on the floor. A beat passes.
