“True,” she says, slipping into the navy dress and smoothing it over her hips. “Anyone with real power in the Chicago underworld will be there. Along with a few out-of-towners. We’ve got some flying in from New York, and even a few from Moscow.”
“Great,” I mumble. “No pressure.”
Maura laughs as she turns to face me. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got this cool, untouchable elegance to you now. It’s terrifying.”
“I think that’s just third trimester exhaustion,” I reply. “But I’m getting used to it. This world. The rules, the games, the fact that everyone’s either a threat or an ally, depending on the hour.”
She perches beside me. “You’re fitting in perfectly, Astrid. Smart women always do. You’ve got the instincts for it. And you’ve got Yuri.”
The last part quiets me more than I expect. I shift, smoothing the fabric stretched over my stomach, tracing the curve where our twins turn and nudge.
Maura notices. “What’s wrong?”
I hesitate, then shake my head. “It’s silly.”
“Try me.”
I glance at her, then away. “I’ve never been someone who needed the whole big wedding thing. White dresses, toasts… it always felt performative. But now…”
“But now you’re wondering if he’s even thinking about it,” she finishes gently.
I nod. “We’re having twins together. And I know he loves me. But sometimes I wonder if marriage is even on his radar, or if I’m just supposed to assume this is it.”
Maura takes a moment to think about her answer, then says, “The men in this family have a tendency to take their time with that sort of thing. Commitment doesn’t scare them. It’s more that they get stuck inside their heads trying to make everything perfect first. Timing, politics, logistics.”
I smile faintly. “Sounds about right.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “But Yuri? He looks at you like you hang the moon and stars each night. I’d bet my favorite Louboutin heels he’s already thinking about it. He’s just probably trying to find the right way to make it unforgettable.”
I want to believe her, but there’s still a whisper of uncertainty I can’t quite shake.
Maura squeezes my hand again and gives me a knowing smile. “Don’t waste the day worrying. It’ll all work out. Especially with men like ours—when they finally move, they do it big.”
I let out a breath, nodding. “Thanks. For letting me say it out loud.”
She grins. “This is what the Ivanov sisterhood is for. Complaints, fashion advice, and the occasional whispered assassination plot.”
I laugh. “That last one better stay hypothetical.”
“We’ll see,” she teases, rising with a stretch. “Now, get changed. We’ve got a lunch to get to.”
I slip into something a little less glamorous—a soft knit dress with boots and a coat belted over the top. Maura’s waiting by the front entrance, checking her phone. Lev’s voice echoes faintly from somewhere deep in the mansion, something about toddler crayons.
Our driver meets us outside. The sleek, black car glides through the chilly autumn air into the heart of the city. We’re headed to Le Colonial, a dreamy French-Vietnamese fusion restaurant in the Gold Coast. When we arrive, warm light spills through gauzy curtains, the scent of lemongrass and grilled meat wafting through the air before we even step fully in.
It’s a bit of a tradition, Maura explains as we’re ushered to a private room upstairs. The Ivanov women always take this afternoon before the gala for themselves, one last calmbefore the storm. The men stay behind, corralling children and finalizing logistics. We eat, we laugh, we breathe.
Elena is already there, stylish as ever in wide-leg trousers and a perfect smoky eye. Dalia arrives next, cheeks flushed from the wind, shrugging off a chic camel coat. Isabella soon joins us, looking effortlessly glamorous as ever.
They talk about their kids—potty training woes, preschool admissions, teen eye rolls. Then they shift to their work—Elena’s new server farm project in Bronzeville, Dalia launching a boutique wine line, Maura’s quietly aggressive plan to take over a rival gallery space near Fulton Market.
I don’t say much at first, just listen. Absorb. Smile.
But the tension inside me loosens. Maybe it’s the warmth of the space or the soft clink of silverware or the way no one here apologizes for being smart, bold, and still wanting family, still building futures. I find myself jumping in, talking about my consulting work, ideas I’ve had for a small, tech-focused non-profit, how I want the twins to grow up seeing their mother work hard and lead.
When they ask if we’ve picked names, I tell them maybe. It’s a half-truth. I want Yuri to be the first to know.
By the end of lunch, I feel close to whole. Like I’ve been missing this circle of women who fight, dream, and carry so much yet still manage to laugh through it all.
