The ultrasound continues for another twenty minutes—checking every measurement, every organ, confirming everything isdeveloping perfectly. By the end, we have a dozen printed images and the confirmation that our boy is healthy, thriving, exactly where he should be.
"Next appointment in four weeks," Dr. Volkov says as we leave at 4:00 PM. "Continue modified activity, listen to your body, call immediately if anything concerns you."
In the car driving back to the mansion, Maksim keeps glancing at the ultrasound photos on the seat between us.
"A boy," he says again, like he's testing the reality of it.
"Are you disappointed? That it's not a girl?"
"No. Relieved, actually. A daughter would have been—" He pauses. "Complicated. Too many ghosts. A son feels like completely new territory. No comparison. Just—new."
"Names?" I ask. "We should start thinking about names."
"Something Russian. Strong. Honoring our heritage without being weighted by it."
"Nikolai?" I suggest. "It means 'victory of the people.' Seems appropriate."
"Nikolai Maksimovich Petrov." He tests it. "I like it. Another option?"
"Stefan? Means 'crown' or 'wreath.' Strong but not harsh."
"Stefan Maksimovich Petrov." Another test. "Also good. We don't have to decide today."
"No. We have four more months. But it's good to start thinking."
We arrive home at 4:45 PM. Natasha is in the kitchen with Irina, preparing dinner. She sees our expressions immediately.
"You know," she says. "What is it?"
"A boy," I announce, unable to stop smiling. "A healthy baby boy."
She squeals—actual squealing—and hugs me carefully. "A boy! Sergei will be relieved."
"Why would Sergei be relieved?"
She blushes slightly. "He said if it was a girl, he'd have to teach her self-defense from birth. Boys are easier to protect, apparently."
"That's ridiculous," I say, but I'm laughing.
Maksim and I spend the evening in the third-floor studio—not dancing, just planning. The nursery will be in the room next to ours on the second floor. We sketch ideas on paper, discussing themes.
"Ballet elements," I say. "Obviously. Maybe a small barre at toddler height? Let him play, explore movement naturally."
"And Bratva elements," Maksim adds. "Russian folk art, traditional patterns, connecting him to heritage."
"Not guns and violence," I clarify.
"Culture and history," he agrees. "The good parts of what we come from. Protection without fear."
By 8:00 PM, we have rough designs. A room that honors both our worlds—dancer and Bratva, beauty and strength, art and survival.
"He's going to be amazing," I say, hand on my bump. "However he turns out—dancer or fighter or accountant or teacher—he'll be amazing."
"He will," Maksim agrees. "Because he's ours. And we'll give him choices, freedom, safety. Everything we fought for."
Later, we move to the bedroom. I'm exhausted from the day's emotions, but also restless. The baby has been moving periodically since the first flutter this morning—gentle reminders that he's there, growing, real.
Maksim undresses me carefully, reverent as always with the pregnancy. At twenty weeks, my body has changed dramatically—breasts fuller, hips wider, stomach round and hard with life.
