“It’s both.”
Her breath hitches. My hands slide up slightly, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of her inner thighs through her dress. Not sexual—not quite. Just intimacy. Connection.
“Aleksandr—”
The door opens. We spring apart like teenagers caught by parents.
Dr. Kuzmin enters with a tablet, expression professionally neutral. “Mr. and Mrs. Sharov. The results are conclusive.”
My heart stops.
“Mrs. Sharov, you are approximately five weeks pregnant. Congratulations.”
The room tilts. Five weeks. From that night in my office. From when control shattered and I took her on my desk, desperate and furious and unable to stop myself.
Elena makes a small sound. I grip her hand without thinking, anchoring us both.
We opt for the ultrasound, and afterward, Dr. Kuzmin says, “Congratulations again. I’ll leave you both to process.”
She exits, and we’re alone with the ultrasound images and the weight of certainty.
Elena sits up slowly, gel still on her stomach, holding the images with shaking hands.
“It’s real,” she whispers. “This is actually happening. Jesus.”
“Yes.”
“I’m pregnant. With your child. We’re having a baby.”
“Yes.”
She looks at me, eyes wide and lost. “What do we do now?”
I take the images from her hands, set them carefully aside. Cup her face between my palms.
“Now we prepare. We protect. We build a life that’s safe for all three of us.” I lean in close. “You’re not just my wife anymore. You’re the mother of my child. That changes everything.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.” I kiss her forehead, gentle and reverent. “Everything.”
Chapter Twenty-Five - Elena
The pregnancy changes things in ways I don’t expect.
Not externally—the world doesn’t shift on its axis, the sun still rises, the house still operates with the same controlled efficiency.
Internally, something is different.
I notice how Aleksandr stays closer now. Not smothering, not obvious, but present in ways he wasn’t before. He’s there at meals, adjusting my chair before I sit. He’s in the hallway when I move between rooms, like he just happens to be passing by. He watches who approaches me—guards, staff, anyone—with an intensity that borders on territorial.
His touch is different too. More careful. More reverent. Like I might break if he’s not gentle enough.
When he helps me into the car, his hand lingers at my elbow longer than necessary. When he passes me in the corridor, his fingers brush my waist, just a moment of contact. When we’re alone, he gravitates toward me without seeming to realize it, standing close, close enough that I feel the heat of him.
I tell myself it’s manipulation. Strategic care to keep me compliant, to ensure the pregnancy stays healthy, to protect his investment.
My body doesn’t believe that lie anymore.
