Sonya
Saturday, November 27th, 9:00 AM.
Alexei and Mila prepare to leave after breakfast. Their bodyguards are already loading luggage into the SUV, efficient and silent.
We gather in the foyer for goodbyes—Maksim, me, Sergei, Natasha. I'm still moving carefully after yesterday's scare, Dr. Volkov's orders for modified bed rest echoing in my mind.
"Thank you for staying," I tell them. "It meant everything."
Alexei turns to me. "Take care of that baby. The Morozov-Petrov legacy depends on it."
"No pressure," I say wryly.
Mila hugs me carefully, mindful of the pregnancy. "Call if you need anything. Anything at all. And rest. Actually rest this time."
"I will."
They climb into the SUV at 9:15 AM, the bodyguards closing doors with synchronized precision. We watch from the entrance as they drive away, beginning the twelve-hour journey back to Chicago.
When the car disappears from view, Maksim turns to me. "Back to bed."
"I just woke up three hours ago."
"Modified bed rest means bed. Doctor's orders."
I want to argue. Want to insist I'm fine, the bleeding stopped, the baby is thriving. But yesterday's terror is still too fresh. The image of blood on the sheets, the fear of losing this child like Elena lost hers.
So I return to our bedroom without complaint.
The next nine days establish a rhythm I remember too well from early November.
Modified bed rest is less strict than complete bed rest—I can use the bathroom freely, sit up for meals, and move around the bedroom. But no stairs, no studio, no teaching in person. Limited activity to prevent any additional stress on the pregnancy.
I'm nine weeks pregnant. Then ten weeks. Each day that passes without bleeding feels like a victory.
Maksim sets up his office in the bedroom again, laptop and files spread across the desk by the window. He works from here, refusing to leave me alone for more than necessary bathroom breaks.
"You don't have to stay," I tell him on Sunday afternoon.
"Yes, I do."
"I'm fine. The baby is fine. You have a criminal empire to run."
"Sergei has it. I have you."
The certainty in his voice silences any argument.
Monday through Wednesday blur together.
Foundation planning continues via video calls. I'm supposed to teach the opening classes for new students this week—twelve enrolled now between Philadelphia and New York, word spreading through Bratva networks faster than we anticipated.
But Natasha teaches instead, with me on video providing guidance from bed.
"This is the second time in a month I've been benched," I complain to Maksim on Tuesday evening. "November 1st through 11th for the first bed rest, now November 27th through at least December 5th. I'm missing everything."
"You're growing our child. That's not nothing."
"I know. But I wanted to teach those opening classes. Wanted to be there when the foundation really launches."
