Page 58

She doesn’t answer. Instead, her eyes scan the room, taking in the champagne, the dimmed lights. “This looks… intimate.”

“It’s a celebration,” I explain, gesturing to the bottle. “For Polina. For us surviving a week of parenthood.” I pour two glasses, offering her the non-alcoholic version. “Don’t worry— yours won’t affect your milk.”

She accepts the glass, keeping a careful distance between our fingers. “Thank you for arranging the nurse. I didn’t realize how tired I was until someone else took over.”

“You push yourself too hard.” I indicate the seating area by the windows. “Sit. Relax.”

She chooses the armchair rather than joining me on the sofa. Another small rejection, but I let it pass. One battle at a time.

“How is Polina?” I ask, though I know the answer; I spend as much time as possible with her daily. As much time as I can fit in around the ice princess that Stella has become.

“Perfect.” For the first time, genuine warmth enters her voice. “She gained another four ounces. The doctor says she’s developing exactly as she should.”

“She has your determination.” I sip my champagne, watching Stella over the rim of my glass. Even exhausted, with her body still recovering from childbirth, she’s lovely. The soft curve of her cheek. The fullness of her lips. The new roundness of her breasts, heavy with milk for our daughter.

“She has your eyes,” Stella says, surprising me with the voluntary observation. “And your temper.”

I smile despite myself. “Poor child.”

A ghost of a smile touches her lips before vanishing. Progress.

We sit in silence for a moment, the space between us filled with unspoken words. I search for neutral topics, anything to keep this fragile connection alive.

“Diana wants to visit you again tomorrow,” I offer. “To see Polina.”

Stella nods. “That would be nice. She’s been very kind.”

“She’s excited to be an aunt.” I lean forward slightly. “And Bobik is curious about his sister. You must let us know when he can meet her.”

At the mention of my son, something flickers across Stella’s face— an emotion I can’t identify before it’s gone. “Soon. Of course. They’re siblings.”

“I’ll arrange it,” I say, taking control of the matter. I don’t know why Stella has been so reluctant for us to integrate as a family. Overprotective, perhaps. That’s something I can understand.

The silence returns, heavier now. She sips her champagne, eyes fixed on the windows behind me, looking at everything except my face. Her free hand plucks at a loose thread on her leggings. I want to reach out and still it.

“Stella.” I set my glass down. “What’s happening between us?”

She stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” I keep my voice level despite my frustration. “Since our daughter’s birth, you’ve barely looked at me. Barely spoken to me. It’s like living with a ghost.”

“I’m just tired.” The excuse sounds hollow.

“Bullshit.” Too sharp. I moderate my tone. “You were tired before, after the accident. Exhausted, even. But not like this. Not cold.”

Her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass. “I’m not cold.”

“Then what would you call it?”

She doesn’t answer, just takes another sip of champagne, eyes still avoiding mine.

“Did I do something?” I press, needing to understand. “Say something? Is it postpartum depression? Dr. Malhotra mentioned it could—”

“It’s not depression,” she cuts me off, voice suddenly firm.

“Then what? Because this,” I gesture between us, “this silence is worse than fighting. At least with fighting, I’d know what the problem was.” Problems are things that I can deal with. This… this is simply nothing.

She finally meets my eyes, something resolute settling over her features. Setting her glass down, she straightens in her chair.