The baby kicked.
I pressed my hand against my stomach, feeling the flutter of movement beneath my palm. Seven months along now, and I still hadn't gotten used to the sensation—that strange, wonderful reminder that I wasn't alone in my body anymore. That someone else was in there, growing, becoming, waiting to meet the world.
"Active today?" Rodion asked from across the kitchen.
"Very. I think she's practicing kickboxing."
"She?"
"Just a feeling." I smiled, watching him pour coffee into two cups—regular for him, decaf for me. "Dr. Jackson offered to tell us at the last appointment, but I wanted to wait."
"Until when?"
"Until it doesn't matter anymore. Until she's here and we can see for ourselves."
He crossed the room and handed me my cup, his free hand coming to rest on the swell of my belly. The baby kicked again, as if responding to his touch, and I saw his expression shift—that softening I'd come to recognize, the wonder he still couldn't quite hide.
"She knows her father," I said.
"Or she's telling me to back off."
"Also possible."
We stood there for a moment, connected through the life growing between us. Outside the penthouse windows,Manhattan sparkled in the early morning light—the same view I'd stared at six months ago, feeling trapped and terrified and utterly alone. Now it looked different. Now it looked like home.
A lot had changed in six months.
The security breach had been traced to one of the junior guards—a man named Pavel who'd been on Petrovic's payroll for over a year. Rodion had dealt with him personally. I didn't ask for details, and he didn't offer them. Some things were better left unspoken.
The penthouse had been overhauled from top to bottom. New codes, new systems, new personnel vetted by Yegor and Gleb together. The place was a fortress now, though you wouldn't know it to look at it. The same clean lines, the same expensive furniture, the same stunning views. But underneath, everything had changed.
I'd changed too.
The woman who'd sat in that guest room six months ago, counting the ways her life had fallen apart, felt like a stranger now. I still did my video sessions—Julia, Benjamin, Patricia, and a handful of others who'd stuck with me through my mysterious "family emergency." I still baked when I was stressed, still walked when I needed to think, still found comfort in the small rituals that had always grounded me.
But I was different. Softer in some ways, harder in others. More willing to trust, more capable of violence. I'd learned to shoot in the past few months—Yegor's idea, Rodion's reluctant agreement—and discovered I was good at it. Better than good. Something about the focus, the precision, the control. It felt like therapy, in its own dark way.
I'd learned other things too. How to read a room for threats. How to identify exits. How to carry myself like someonewho belonged in this world, even when I still felt like an imposter.
And I'd learned how to love without holding back. How to let someone in completely, without keeping one foot out the door. It was terrifying and exhilarating and nothing like I'd expected.
"What time is Amber coming?" Rodion asked, interrupting my thoughts.
"Noon. She's taking the train in from Connecticut."
"Do you want me to send a car?"
"She'd hate that. She's already overwhelmed by—" I gestured vaguely at the penthouse, the view, the life I'd somehow stumbled into. "All of this."
"She hasn't seen all of this yet."
"She's seen enough. The wedding photos, the address, the security detail that picked her up the one time she tried to visit unannounced." I shook my head. "She thinks I've joined a cult. Or married a drug lord. Or both."
"Close enough."
"That's not funny."
"It's a little funny." He kissed my forehead. "I'll make myself scarce when she arrives. Give you two time to talk."
