A doctor emerges, still wearing her surgical mask, and my heart stops.
I’m on my feet instantly, closing the distance between us in three strides.
“How is she?” The question comes out strangled. “The baby?”
The doctor pulls down her mask, and I search her face desperately for clues.
She’s older, the lines around her eyes a testament to the long years spent here.
“Mrs. Artyomov and the baby are stable,” she says, and the relief that floods through me is so intense I have to grip the wall to stay upright. “But I need to be very clear about the situation.”
I force myself to focus, to listen, even though all I want is to burst through that door and see Sophia with my own eyes.
“Your wife experienced what we call a threatened miscarriage. She had some bleeding and cramping, which can be very serious at this stage of pregnancy.” The doctor’s expression is grave. “We’ve managed to stop the bleeding, and the fetal heartbeat is strong. But Mrs. Artyomov needs complete bed rest for the next several weeks. No stress, no physical exertion, no excitement of any kind.”
“How long?” My mind is already racing, calculating what needs to be done.
“At least until she reaches the second trimester safely. After that, we’ll reassess.” The doctor touches my arm gently. “Mr. Artyomov, I need you to understand how serious this is. Any additional stress could trigger another episode. Next time, we might not be able to stop it.”
The words hit me like bullets.
Next time.
There could be a next time, and our baby could die because I can’t keep Sophia safe from the chaos of my world.
“Can I see her?” I ask.
“Of course. But keep it brief. She needs rest.” The doctor steps aside, and I’m moving before she finishes speaking.
Sophia lies in the hospital bed, looking impossibly small and fragile against the white sheets.
Her black hair spreads across the pillow, and her face is pale, but her eyes are open.
When she sees me, tears spill down her cheeks.
“Mikhail.” My name is a sob.
I’m at her side instantly, gathering her into my arms as carefully as I can. She clings to me, her body shaking with silent tears, and I hold her like she’s made of glass.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers against my chest. “I’m so sorry. I should have been more careful, should have?—”
“Shh.” I stroke her hair, my own eyes burning. “This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”
“The baby?—”
“Is fine. The doctor said the baby is fine.” I pull back just enough to look at her face, to wipe away her tears with my thumbs. “But you need to rest. Complete bed rest. No stress.”
She nods, and I see the exhaustion in her eyes. “Take me home.”
“I will. I’ll take care of everything.” The promise forms in my mind even as I speak it.
I’ll create a fortress around her, an impenetrable shield that nothing and no one can breach.
Whatever it takes to keep her and our baby safe.
Three days later, I stand in the master bedroom of the new compound, watching as workers install the final security measures. Bulletproof windows.
Reinforced steel doors.
