Then I ached.
Then I was his all over again.
Galina crossed to me, her gaze dropping to my bare feet.
“Nadia,” she said.
“I took the shoes off five minutes ago.”
“The doctor said your feet may swell.”
“My feet aren’t swelling.”
“They will if you stand through the entire shower pretending you’re a hostess instead of the guest of honor.”
“I worked double shifts at The Samovar Room in low heels.”
Galina’s gaze sharpened.
I stopped.
The old name sat between us for a breath: The Samovar Room, with its sticky floors, velvet booths, and men who thought money gave them reach. Then my toes curled into the soft rug beneath me, and the smell of roses and honey cake filled my lungs.
Galina touched my elbow, light but firm. “You don’t work double shifts now.”
“No,” I said. “Now I’m bullied by rich people into sitting down.”
“You married my son. You should’ve expected a family talent for command.”
“Tamar,” I called, “write that down. Galina admitted it’s hereditary.”
“I heard,” Tamar said. “I’m adding it to my case file.”
Oksana’s brows drew together. “What case file?”
Tamar patted her arm. “Don’t worry. It’s mostly decorative.”
Galina guided me to the pale sofa near the windows and settled a cashmere throw over my lap despite the fact that the room was perfectly warm. She’d been doing that for weeks. Covering me. Feeding me. Sending attendants to ask if I wanted tea. Interviewing nannies with the grave seriousness of a judge. She dismissed two because they had referred to newborns as “manageable.” She dismissed another because her shoes squeaked.
I’d once looked at Vadim across our dressing room while one of Galina’s household schedules sat open on the table.
“Has your mother always been terrifying?” I asked.
Vadim didn’t hesitate. “She was gentler before you became pregnant.”
That was a lie.
It was a beautiful lie, but still a lie.
Galina sat beside me, close enough that her shoulder brushed mine. Her gaze moved across the room to the framed photograph on the side table.
Mikhail stood in the picture in a dark suit, one hand closed over the head of his cane, his eyes hard enough to make the camera seem rude for catching him. The photo had been taken years before I met Vadim, before illness had thinned him, before the formal succession everyone had expected became final.
Mikhail had died six weeks after my wedding, in his bed with Galina beside him and Vadim in the room before the end. The city had changed hands without surprise.
Men had come to pay respects. Men had come to measure weakness. Men had left understanding they had found none. Vadim had become Pakhan as if the title had been waiting for his shoulders, and still, on the first night after the funeral, I’d found him in the dark nursery doorway with one hand braced high on the frame.
There hadn’t been a crib yet, only paint samples, fabric swatches, and a room full of plans.
