"Twelve weeks pregnant. The baby is fine. Checked by doctors immediately after."
"How do you feel about your husband killing Anton Kozlov?"
"Grateful. Relieved. Safe for the first time in five years."
"Will you continue performing after this trauma?"
"I'll continue teaching through the foundation. Performance is... complicated right now. But dance will always be part of my life."
The press conference concludes at 3:00 PM. We've controlled the narrative, announced the foundation, honored the victims. Now the media can tell the story we want told.
Sunday morning, 10:00 AM.
Elena's parents arrive at Philadelphia International Airport from Moscow that I arranged.
Dmitri and Oksana Volkov. Sixties now, gray-haired, carrying the weight of losing their daughter sixteen years ago. I haven't seen them since Elena's funeral. Couldn't face them. Couldn't bear their grief added to mine.
But yesterday, after the press conference, I called them. Explained everything—Sonya, the pregnancy, the foundation, Anton's death. Asked them to come. To meet Sonya. To give us their blessing if they could.
They said yes immediately.
Sergei drives us to the airport. Sonya is nervous beside me, one hand on her bump.
"What if they hate me? What if they see me as replacement, as—"
"They won't. They loved Elena. They'll love what we're building in her name."
The Volkovs emerge from customs at 10:30 AM. Oksana sees me first, and her face crumples. She crosses to me quickly, pulls me into a fierce hug.
In Russian. "Maksim. Oh, Maksim. We thought we'd lost you too when Elena died. You disappeared into your grief and work. We thought—" She's crying now. "We thought you'd never heal."
"I'm healing. Finally." I turn to Sonya. "Because of her."
Oksana studies Sonya—really looks at her. The small bump, the elegant composure, the strength evident in her posture.
"You're the dancer. The one who survived him."
"Yes. I'm sorry I—I'm carrying Maksim's child, wearing your daughter's legacy, standing where she should be—"
Oksana stops her with a hand on her cheek. "You're giving him a future. That's all Elena would want. She loved him so much. Wanted him happy. If she could see you both now—" Fresh tears. "She would be grateful you found each other."
Dmitri is quieter, more reserved. But he embraces me carefully. "The foundation. Elena's dream. You're really doing it?"
"Sonya is doing it. I'm supporting her. Twenty-two students enrolled, both cities. More applications daily. It's real, Dmitri. Elena's dream is real."
"Then she's proud. Wherever she is, she's proud."
We bring them to the mansion. Over lunch, we shared everything—how Sonya and I met, how Anton terrorized her for five years, how the foundation developed, how the pregnancy happened, how last night ended at Lincoln Center.
At 3:00 PM, Oksana presents us with a gift wrapped carefully in tissue paper.
"These were Elena's," she says. "From when she was five years old. Her first ballet shoes. We've kept them all these years, not knowing what to do with them. But now—" She hands the package to Sonya. "For your baby. Elena's first shoes, your child's legacy. Connection between past and future."
Sonya unwraps them carefully. Tiny pink ballet shoes, worn soft with use, a little girl's dreams preserved in leather and satin.
She cries. Oksana cries. Even Dmitri's eyes are wet.
"Thank you," Sonya manages. "We'll treasure them. Keep them for our child. Tell them about Elena, about her dreams, about how their existence is a gift built on loss."
