He nods, thoughtful. Then: "I've been considering therapy. For old demons. War ghosts that don't fade. Your foundation focuses on dancers, but the model—helping people escape dangerous situations, rebuild—it resonates. Do you know psychiatrists in the Bratva network? Someone who understands our world but can help navigate trauma?"
It's a vulnerable admission from a man like Vladislav. Alexei and I exchange glances.
"I'll send you contacts," Alexei says. "There are people. Discreet, experienced with our particular kind of trauma."
"Appreciated." Vladislav stands. "I'll finalize Moscow pilot program details next week. And Sonya—tell her the gallery deal will be excellent. I know exactly who'll want it."
He leaves at 4:00 PM. The day has been successful—international expansion for the foundation, financial solution for Sonya's gallery, new partnerships forming.
By 8:00 PM, we're exhausted but satisfied. Sonya falls asleep early, worn out from the day's negotiations.
I watch her sleep—twenty-five weeks pregnant, building a legacy in multiple directions, fierce and brilliant and mine.
Everything is perfect.
Everything is about to shatter.
At 9:15 PM.
I'm in the study reviewing Moscow pilot program details when I hear Sonya cry out from upstairs.
Not a normal sound. Pain. Distress.
I'm running before conscious thought, taking stairs three at a time.
She's in our bathroom, doubled over, one hand bracing against the sink. Her face is white, terrified.
"Maksim—something's wrong—"
I see the blood. On her clothes, on the floor. Too much blood.
No time for questions, for processing, for anything except moving. I carry her downstairs—she's gasping through pain, holding her stomach protectively.
Sergei appears, sees the situation, and already has the keys. "I'm driving. You stay with her."
We're in the SUV by 9:20 PM, racing toward the hospital. Sonya is crying now—fear and pain mixed together.
"The baby—Maksim, the baby—"
"He's okay. You're both okay. We're getting help."
But there’s too much blood.
We arrive at the emergency entrance at 9:35 PM. The medical team is already alerted—Sergei called ahead. They take her immediately, rush her to obstetrics.
I follow, not letting go of her hand.
Dr. Volkov arrives at 9:40 PM, immediately examining Sonya. Ultrasound, vital checks, rapid assessment while she's crying in pain.
After five minutes of urgent evaluation, his face is grim. "Placental abruption," he says at 9:45 PM. "The placenta is separating from the uterine wall. She's bleeding internally. The baby is in distress."
The words hit like bullets.
"What does that mean?" I ask, though I already know. Remembering medical terms from sixteen years ago, from Elena's pregnancy.
"It means we need to deliver now. Emergency C-section. The baby is twenty-five weeks—barely viable, but every minute we wait risks both of them."
Twenty-five weeks. Fifteen weeks early. Three and a half months premature.
