Another buzz—a text this time:
Mireille:
Your girl is living her best grandma life. Dasha won’t stop following her around.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing too loudly. Vanda has been thriving since Dasha came into the family. She’s more playful, more energetic, more curious. And every time I floated the idea of getting a second dog, Viktor would wrap an arm around my waist, murmur something like, “Vanda deserves peace in her old age,” and change the subject.
I know he’s right, but that doesn’t curb the temptation.
The ‘peace and quiet’ won’t last for much longer now, anyway…
My hand drifts down to my stomach. It’s still very flat—no visible changes. Not yet. But everything feels different to me.
The world might as well have changed its axis the moment I found out. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell him ever since, but no moment ever seemed right.
Maybe tonight, when it’s just the two of us, I’ll tell him then.
I lift my eyes from my phone and catch Viktor watching me in that focused, intent way of his that never fails to get my heart doing cartwheels, like he can see into my very soul.
He does that sometimes—reads me too well. Sees too deeply. And with the hormones making every emotion swell triple its size, it’s harder to school my expression.
I take a breath, open the balcony door, and ask lightly, “Are you two ready for dinner?”
Viktor stands immediately. “Yes.”
Mikhail drains the rest of his drink. “You both will have to excuse me; I need to head out. Big party tonight. Lots of fake people to charm.”
I laugh. “Good luck.”
“Oh no,” he says cheerfully, grabbing his jacket, “it’s them who need luck.”
He kisses my cheek, slaps Viktor’s shoulder, and disappears inside, humming under his breath.
The apartment falls quiet again.
Viktor steps behind me, one hand settling at the small of my back, warm and grounding. Protective in that effortless way of his.
“Come,” he murmurs.
He guides me toward the dining room, but the closer we get to the table, the more my nerves grow. My stomach is flipping—partly from anxiety, partly from morning sickness that I’ve recently discovered isn’t only limited to mornings.
Please let this just be nerves.
I don’t want to throw up while telling my husband he’s going to be a father.
I swallow hard as he pulls out my chair.
He notices.Of course he notices.
His fingers brush my wrist before I sit. “Natalya…” His voice is low, assessing.
I offer him a shaky smile. “I’m fine. Just hungry.”
Viktor
Of course, she’s not fine…
Something is off with my wife.
