The furniture is solid wood, hand-crafted by a carpenter in the city. We chose a crib that converts to a toddler bed and the dresser has a changing table top. There’s a bookshelf already half-filled with children’s books that Vera keeps buying even though the baby won’t be able to read for years.
“Here?” Roman asks, gesturing to where the rocking chair should go as Dmitry and Sergei hold it.
“By the window. So Vera can look out at the gardens.”
Viktor and Sergei set the rocking chair down. “You’ve really thought of everything, haven’t you?” Roman asks.
“I’m trying to.” I run my hand over the crib railing, checking for any rough edges. “This baby deserves everything.”
Roman’s quiet for a moment, then says softly, “You're going to be a good father, Boss.”
The words hit me harder than I expected. “You think so?”
Dmitry and Sergei nod in agreement and Roman says, “I know so. You’re already obsessing over furniture placement and making sure everything’s perfect. That’s what good fathers do.”
I’m not sure I believe him as I never had a good father, so I don’t know what that looks like, but I’m going to try and be the father this baby deserves.
The Ashfords arrive at noon sharp, just as predicted.
Vera’s sisters Lydia and Natasha (they claim they aren’t identical but I sure as shit can’t tell them apart) burst through the door with bags of baby supplies and enough enthusiasm to power a small city.
“Vera!” Lydia squeals, wrapping her sister in a careful hug. “You’re huge!”
“Lydia!” Elena admonishes.
“I mean that in the best way!” The girl insists. “You look amazing! Glowing! Absolutely gorgeous!”
Natasha’s already moving toward the nursery. “Can we see the baby’s room? Please? We brought more stuff—I know you said you have enough but we found these adorable onesies with little animals and?—”
“Come on,” Vera laughs, leading them away. “But I’m warning you, Dimitri’s already gone overboard.”
“There’s no such thing as overboard for a baby!” Elena says but she ushers her younger daughters down the hall, following Vera.
Vincent and I watch them go, then exchange a look that’s become familiar over the past few months. The look of men who are utterly outnumbered by the women in their lives and have learned to accept it.
“Drink?” I offer.
“Fuck, yes.”
We settle in my office with a bottle Vincent brought as a gift two months ago when he and I actually started talking like friends instead of reluctant allies. It’s fucking good scotch too and I’m always delighted to open it up.
“How’s she doing?” he asks, swirling the amber liquid. “Really?”
“Good. Tired, but good. Dr. Petrov says everything looks perfect. Baby’s healthy and measuring right on track.” I pause. “She’s scared, I think. About the delivery and being a mother, but she won’t admit it.”
“She’s always been stubborn like that.” Vincent sips his glass. “Elena was the same way before we had Vera. But it goes away after the baby arrives.” He’s quiet for a moment before he fixes me with a piercing look. “You’ll take care of her.”
I dip my head in acknowledgment. The old me would have bristled at the comment. “Always.”
“And the baby.”
“That baby is mine, Vincent. I don’t care about biology or blood. That’s my child,” I tell him firmly.
He nods slowly, relaxing. “Good. That’s—good.”
The afternoon passes in comfortable chaos. The twins coo over every baby item they bought while Vera and her mother try to organize things. Vincent and I discuss business and politics and the surprisingly effective cooperation between our families.
It’s normal. The kind of life I never thought I’d have.
