At eight months, hiding the pregnancy is impossible. My belly is enormous, stretching my clothes to their limits. We announced it publicly three months ago, and it became an immediate symbol. We knew it was a risk and invited violence, but it wasn’t like we could hide it forever. And Maksim is a scary man on a regular day. When it comes to protecting his babies, he’s fierce. Deadly. People know better.
"Your father wants to see you," Maksim says, changing the subject.
I tense slightly. The reconciliation with my father has been slow and painful. Necessary, but difficult.
"How is he?" I ask.
It’s not lost on me that Maksim seems to have a closer relationship with my father than I do. I just haven’t been able to bring myself to forgive him. Maksim pays the doctors and therapists. I’ve visited a few times, but it’s so hard for me to look at him. To know he tried to kill the man I loved and then watched me suffer.
My father’s physical injuries have healed but he will always walk with a cane. His psychological trauma was far worse.
But again, I can’t bring myself to care.
I care for Anya’s sake, but that’s it.
"I'll visit him tomorrow," I say finally. "After the morning briefings."
Maksim nods. I see relief in his eyes. He's been pushing for this reconciliation, believing our children deserve to know their grandfather despite his flaws.
Maybe he's right. Maybe forgiveness—or at leastacceptance—is possible even after betrayal.
"How are we doing with the integration?" I ask, reviewing the latest reports spread across the table.
"Better than expected." Maksim picks up one of the charts. "The younger generation especially seems eager for change. They're tired of the old ways."
"And the old guard?"
"Resistant. But dying off or being forced out." His smile is grim. "Natural selection. The families that can't adapt are losing territory and influence to those who can."
"We're actually doing this," I say quietly. "Changing how things work."
"We are." Maksim reaches behind me and rubs my back. It always hurts these days and he always knows how to help make it a little less painful.
The twins kick again, more forcefully this time. I wince.
"They're active today," Maksim observes.
"They're always active." I rub my stomach. "I think they're fighting in there."
"Already." He laughs. "We're in trouble."
"So much trouble." But I'm smiling. Despite the discomfort and the fear about childbirth, I'm happy about these babies.
"Roman would hate this," I observe, looking around the transformed office. "Everything we're building. The changes we're making. He'd be furious."
"Good." Maksim's smile is fierce. "Let him spin in his grave while we build the future."
The satisfaction in his voice mirrors what I'm feeling.
We won.
"Do you ever wonder if we're being naive?" I ask. "Thinking we can change centuries of tradition?"
"Every day. But then I remember what the alternative was. Living in fear. Raising our children in a world where violence was the only currency that mattered. That's not acceptable."
He's right. Of course he's right.
"The families meet next week," I remind him.
