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Guards stand outside our door. Nurses come and go quietly. The city glitters beyond the windows. But in this room, time seems suspended. We exist in a bubble of strange peace, this new family formed from such complicated beginnings.

As exhaustion pulls me toward sleep, I find myself watching Aleksei’s face as he gazes at our daughter. The hardness is gone, replaced by something I’ve glimpsed only in rare, unguarded moments. Something that looks remarkably like love.

Could Hannah be wrong about him? Not about what he did— the evidence seems clear enough— but about who he is?

Or is this tenderness reserved only for his blood? For Polina, for Bobik, perhaps for Diana? A selective humanity that doesn’t extend to those who cross him?

I don’t have answers. Not yet. But as I drift toward sleep, Polina secure in my arms and Aleksei keeping watch over us both, I allow myself to wonder if there’s more to this story than I know.

For tonight, in this room, with our daughter between us, I’ll let myself pretend we’re just a normal family. Tomorrow will bring decisions, questions, the weight of the past.

But tonight belongs to Polina.

To her new life, even as old wounds continue to bleed beneath the surface.

Chapter Twenty-One

Stella

The gentle tug of Polina’s mouth against my breast anchors me to this moment, to this room, to this impossible new reality.

Her tiny fist rests against my skin, curled like a seashell, while her dark lashes flutter with each pull of milk. I trace the perfect curve of her ear with my fingertip, marveling at how someone so small can contain my entire world. Three days old, and she’s already mastered the art of destroying and rebuilding me with each breath.

The nursery glows with amber light from the Tiffany lamp Aleksei insisted on importing from New York. Everything in this room speaks of his meticulous preparation— the hand-carved mahogany crib with its silk bedding, the cashmere blankets folded in precise squares, the antique rocking chair where I now sit, worn smooth by generations of mothers before me. A room designed for a princess, because that’s what Polina is to him.

To us.

My body aches in places I never knew could hurt, still recovering from becoming a mother. My emotions swing wildly between extremes— fierce love for Polina, bone-deep exhaustion, unexpected tears that come without warning.

“Baby blues, my dear. Normal… all normal,” the midwife had said. “It’s your hormones messing with you. They’ll settle.”

She didn’t mention how these hormones would sharpen every other feeling until they cut like glass. My grief for myparents. My rage toward Aleksei. My confusion about what comes next.

I shift Polina to my other breast, wincing at the tenderness. She latches on with surprising strength, her need uncomplicated and pure. I envy her that simplicity.Feed me. Hold me. Love me.No moral quandaries, no impossible choices.

“That’s right, little bird,” I whisper, stroking the dark fuzz on her head. “Mama’s got you.”

Mama. The word still feels foreign on my tongue. My own mother has only been gone months, her face still clear in my memory. Would she recognize me now, milk-stained and exhausted, cradling her granddaughter in the home of the man who killed the man she loved?

The irony doesn’t escape me. The greatest joy of my life born from connection to my greatest sorrow. How strange that my heart can hold such contradictory truths— that I can love so fiercely the child of someone who caused me such pain. In her innocent face, I see nothing of the darkness that brought us together, only possibility and light. Sometimes when I look at her, I wonder if this is the universe’s way of balancing accounts, offering sweetness from bitterness, life from death.

A floorboard creaks outside the nursery door. I don’t need to look up to know who stands there. My body has developed a sixth sense for his presence— a prickling awareness that registers his proximity before my conscious mind can catch up.

Aleksei enters quietly, his large frame somehow diminished in this soft, feminine space. His eyes find us immediately, his expression transforming from the hard mask he shows the world to something vulnerable and raw.

“How are my girls doing?” he asks, voice gentled to avoid startling Polina.

I glance up briefly, then return my attention to our daughter. “Good.” It’s impossible to disguise the ice in my voice, but he doesn’t react.

He moves closer, kneeling beside the rocking chair with a grace that belies his size. The position brings him level with Polina, his face inches from where she nurses. He reaches out, one finger gently stroking her cheek with a tenderness that makes me swallow hard.

“She’s perfect, isn’t she?” he murmurs. “Just like her mother.”

I stiffen involuntarily, the compliment landing like a stone in still water.

Murderer!

Monster!