The word was firm.
Final.
It wasn’t screamed.
It wasn’t emotional.
It was absolute.
His expression faltered — just slightly.
“Elena—”
“I will raise her myself.”
My voice didn’t shake.
“I don’t need you.”
The words hit harder than any scream could have.
Around us, the nurses continued working — pretending not to absorb every painful syllable.
They adjusted equipment.
Checked charts.
Maintained professionalism.
But tension filled the air like static.
Ruslan looked thinner than I remembered.
His face sharper.
His cheekbones more defined.
There were faint bruises along his neck.
Small scars I didn’t recognize.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes.
Prison had stripped away comfort.
It had stripped away power.
Maybe it had even stripped away arrogance.
But it hadn’t erased who he was.
And it certainly hadn’t erased what he had done.
His throat moved as he swallowed.
“I want to hold her every day.”
His gaze flicked toward the bassinet where our daughter was being weighed.
