"Bleeding has completely stopped," he confirms after examining me. "Everything looks excellent. You're cleared for normal activity starting tomorrow. Light exercise, teaching, normal daily life. Just avoid extreme stress and listen to your body."
"Can I teach again?" Relief floods through me.
"You can teach again. Carefully. But yes."
After he leaves, I turn to Maksim. "Nine days. That's how long this bed rest lasted. The first one was ten days complete bed rest plus three recovery days. This was nine days modified. I'm getting better at this."
"You shouldn't have to get good at bed rest."
"But I am. And the baby survived both scares. That's what matters."
That evening, we celebrate the clearance with careful lovemaking—actual penetration this time, but slow and gentle, both of us cautious but needing the connection. He moves carefully inside me, hands on my bump, whispering promises to both of us.
Monday, December 6th. Back to normal life.
I wake early, dress in real clothes for the first time in nine days, descend the stairs to the first-floor studio where students are waiting.
Natasha greets me with a hug. "Welcome back. We missed you."
"I missed this. Missed moving. Missed teaching."
The class is small—five students in Philadelphia today, three more joining from New York via video. But it's real. It's happening. The foundation is operational.
I teach modified classes, respecting my body's limits, demonstrating carefully. But I teach.
And it feels like resurrection.
That evening, reviewing foundation enrollment numbers with Maksim, I realize we have eighteen students now across bothcities. Word has spread through Bratva networks, through gallery connections, through families seeing hope.
"It's working," I say, studying the spreadsheet. "Despite Anton's threats, despite two bed rests, despite everything—we're actually doing this."
"Of course we are. You don't give up. Even when your body forces you to rest, you find ways to keep building."
"Speaking of Anton—" I pause. "It's been eleven days since the ultrasound. Since he broke his silence. Nothing since then?"
"Nothing. Mariana has federal teams monitoring everything. But no activity, no messages, no sightings."
"The silence is worse than the threats."
"I know. But we're ready. Security is fortress-level. You don't go anywhere unprotected. And—" his hand moves to my stomach, "—the baby is strong. Survived two scares. That's resilience."
I lean into him, both of us understanding what neither says aloud:
Anton's silence will end eventually.
The other shoe will drop.
But tonight, we're safe. The foundation is operational. The baby is thriving. We're building our future despite the shadow hunting us.
And we're fighting for that future with everything we have.
Chapter twenty
The Performance
Maksim
Wednesday, December 15th, 10:00 AM.
