"We have to tell people now," I say around 5:30 AM, watching the highway lights blur past. "Anton's taunt was recorded—the FBI has it on the theater audio. Mariana heard it through the comms. It'll get out."
"Family first," Maksim says. "Alexei, Mila, Sergei. Then we announce on our terms."
"The foundation students—"
"Someone else teaches for six weeks. The foundation isn't going anywhere. Neither is your career. This is temporary."
The highway is empty at this hour, just us and a few trucks. The sky is starting to lighten in the east.
"Are you scared?" I ask quietly.
"Terrified," he admits.
Maksim's hand finds my stomach again, protective.
I guide his hand to rest more firmly over where our baby is growing.
"We will find him. Anton is wounded, running. We will find him."
The certainty in his voice helps. A little.
We arrive at the Philadelphia mansion at 7:00 AM, sunrise painting the sky orange and pink.
Inside, the house is quiet. Most of the tactical teams dispersed after the operation. Just core security remains, and they're discreet as we enter.
Maksim carries me upstairs to his bedroom—our bedroom. Sergei carries Natasha to the blue guest suite, the nurse following with medical equipment.
My phone buzzes. Text from Mariana:
Anton spotted near Penn Station 3 AM, then lost in crowds. Federal manhunt active. Need statements Tuesday. Media being told: hostage resolved, suspect at large. Rest today.
"Tuesday," Maksim says, reading over my shoulder. "Today we rest."
He helps me into bed—his bed, where we've slept together since returning from the safe house. The sheets are clean, the room quiet. Safe.
Natasha is in the guest suite recovering. Anton is out there somewhere, wounded and hunting. The foundation needs managing. The pregnancy needs monitoring.
But right now, we need sleep.
At 8:00 AM, just as I'm drifting off, I whisper: "We need to marry. Properly. Before I show."
"After you rest," he murmurs back. "After the doctor clears you. Then I will make you my wife, in the legal and traditional way."
His hand settles on my stomach. "I'll protect you and this baby with everything I have."
"I know." I burrow into him, exhausted.
We sleep through Monday morning, through afternoon. When I finally wake at 4:00 PM, the first thing I feel is Maksim's finger tracing on my stomach.
I place my hand over his. We don't make love—I'm too sore, too exhausted, and doctor's orders are clear. But there's gentle touching, whispered promises, and planning.
At 5:00 PM, we call Alexei.
"Sonya's pregnant," Maksim says without preamble when the video connects. "Four weeks. Anton Kozlov figured it out before we did."
Alexei's expression cycles through surprise, concern, protective fury. "He knows?"
"He announced it during the confrontation. Used it as psychological warfare."
