“And you’re into this now? Is this your yoga era or your ‘spiritually flexible equals physically flexible’ phase?”
“Both. And don’t distract me,Mother. You’re still pregnant, right?”
I freeze. “Keep your voice down.”
“Jesus, Bella. It’s just me.”
“Yeah, well,just mecould be Oleg disguised as a satellite dish. These walls have ears. And probably a mole with a drone license.”
“Okay,paranoid. But also—congrats? Shouldn’t I be sending you a creepy baby-shaped cake or something?”
I let out a long breath, staring across the garden as the sun sinks like it’s staging a dramatic exit.
“Honestly? It still doesn’t feel real.”
“Because he doesn’t know?”
“Because I’m sitting in a mob boss’s botanical paradise with my leg half-broken and my hormones doing cartwheels while the father of said fetus disappears foreleven dayswithout a word.”
“Eleven days,” Elena repeats. “Not that you’re counting.”
“I’mabsolutelycounting,” I mutter. “It’s been eleven days since he’s even looked at me. Eleven days since he spoke to me. Not even a‘how’s your uterus?’text.”
She sighs. “So, texthim.”
“Text himwhat? ‘Hi, it’s me, your silent wife with your secret spawn. Hope arms deals are going great. Also, you left your socks in the dryer.’”
“Bella.”
I snap a photo of the view just to keep my hands busy. The sky’s turning a kind of violent pink-orange, like the universe accidentally spilled wine on its favorite canvas. For a second, the beauty hits me so hard it feels like grief.
“Julian’s getting suspicious,” I say after a pause. “Lila’s fine—she and Alya are attached at the soul—but Julian keeps asking why Konstantin’s never around. I think he knows something’s off. I’ve lied so much I can’t remember which story I fed him last.”
“Tell him the truth. TellKonstantinthe truth.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because the deal ends in less than a year. And he’s made itveryclear—we walk away after that. He gets his empire. I get my family home. End of story.”
“Except, surprise,” Elena says dryly, “you’re carrying a plot twist in your pants.”
I laugh, but it’s thin. “You should write bumper stickers.”
She softens. “Seriously. You need to say something. Even if it’s just a ‘Hey, I’m still alive. Also, I might be growing a tiny version of you.’”
I exhale, rubbing the sore spot behind my knee where the ache always settles in the evenings. “You don’t understand.”
“No,” she says. “Youdon’t. You think staying silent protects you. But sometimes silence is just a fancier way to self-destruct.”
I don’t respond. Because she’s not wrong. But if I admit that out loud, I’ll fall apart.
And I can’t afford to fall apart. Not when Yelena’s standing on the garden path ahead, hands folded neatly, waiting for me like she’s been there the whole time.
My stomach drops. “I have to go.”
“What? We were just getting to the good part where I convince you to—”
