Page 125 of Unbroken

“Yes,” Matvei replies, sliding the last image across the table. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Ruthie glances down at her phone and exhales sharply the moment it starts ringing, and her breath catches. “Oh no,” she mutters, shaking her head, fingers trembling just slightly. “Not now. She’s home…”

“I have to take this,” she says, voice tight, eyes already flicking toward the hallway like she’s looking for an escape. “But I swear to god, I feel like I’m gonna be sick.”

I glance at the screen. It’s her mother. Of all the shit timing…

“Give it to me,” I say, already reaching. She doesn’t argue—just places the phone in my hand with a kind of frantic relief before rushing off to the bathroom, one hand clutched over her mouth. Looks like morning sickness has come with a vengeance. Poor girl.

I answer, my voice low, cautious. “Hello?”

A woman’s voice, professional but somber. “Looking for Ruthie?”

“She’s…indisposed. Can I help you?”

“Yes, sir, her mother’s taken a turn, and she’s very sick. Asking for her daughter.”

Christ.

That’s the last thing Ruthie needs to hear right now. I swallow the thickness in my throat and try to keep my voice even. “We’re coming.”

She returns a few minutes later, pale and shaky, the edge of a napkin still clutched in one fist. “I don’t want to go there,” she says softly, shaking her head. “We’ve been through so much, Vadka.”

I nod. “Luka’s back at the house with Rafail. Polina called in something for you—anti-nausea. You’re already looking steadier.”

She leans into me, just enough that her shoulder brushes mine. Her voice is soft but sure. “But at least this time… I’m not alone.”

“You’re not,” I say, threading my fingers through hers, grounding her. “We’re gonna get through this, baby. Yeah, it’s been hell. But at least we’re not looking over our shoulders every five seconds. If Zoya is telling the truth, the Irish are done. That threat is gone. For now, at least.”

I watch her eyes close for a beat. “Death’s always brutal,” I murmur. “But it could’ve been so much worse.”

She nods, slow, silent.

“We’re going to see your mother,” I say. “Whatever happens in there—whatever she says, whatever she remembers or doesn’t—it’s not just you anymore. It’s us. The two of us. Together.”

She turns to me, her expression softening, some small piece of light returning to her face. “Of course.”

I squeeze her hand. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

We walk together,our fingers laced tight. Neither of us speaks, not as we reach the doors, not as the heaviness of what waits inside starts to press against our chests.

Then a voice calls out—bright, too loud, too cheerful.

“There’s the happy couple!”

Ruthie freezes mid-step. Her brows lift in surprise and disbelief. “Mom?”

She lets go of my hand gently—not in panic, not in fear. Just careful. Controlled. She walks ahead toward the woman in the wheelchair stationed near the garden windows.

“I always said you two were meant to be,” her mother says, her voice airy now, touched with something dreamlike. “Such a beautiful couple. Just look at you. Destined.”

Her tone has changed—it’s lighter, warmer. Caught somewhere between the present and a memory.

Ruthie kneels beside her, folding her hands in her lap, her movements small and delicate, like muscle memory from childhood. Maybe she wants to hold onto this, to keep the sweetness instead of the judgment and pain… even if there’s a thread of delusion in it all.

“You’re glowing, daughter,” her mother whispers, eyes soft but startlingly focused. “Radiant.”

And then—just for a breath—her voice dips, quiet and deliberate. “Ruthie.”