Page 62 of The Mafia's Septuplets

19

Willa

I’m in my office a couple of days later with financial documents spread across the mahogany desk, each page representing another piece of Iskander’s transformation from criminal enterprise to legitimate businessman. The restaurant chain’s quarterly reports blur together with investment portfolios and partnership agreements, a complex web of numbers that will determine our future. I’m more focused on my own business, trying to find the parts where I can cut out the ties to Iskander’s illegitimate enterprise and make Maison Laurant completely mine again.

My back aches from hunching over spreadsheets, and the pressure in my abdomen is a constant, tight, and relentless flutter that sometimes ramps up to a cramp, making it hard to concentrate. It’s too early to feel true movement, but with seven babies packed into a space meant for one, it wouldn’t surprise me if I’m already feeling the ripple effects of their growing limbs. There are too many crowded into too little space.

The partnership proposal from David Wellington sits open before me, dense with legal terminology that requires careful analysis. His hotel empire could provide the stability Iskander needs to complete his transition, but the terms demand scrutiny that my pregnancy-addled brain struggles to maintain. I’m not even sure why he left me a copy. Ostensibly, we’re partners, but the more he gets drawn into this fight with Mikhail, the more distant he feels.

I stand to stretch, moving too quickly in my eagerness to relieve the pressure in my lower back. The room tilts sideways as black spots dance across my vision when the world becomes unsteady beneath my feet. I reach for the desk’s edge, but the furniture seems impossibly distant as gravity pulls me toward the hardwood floor.

“Ms. Reynolds?” Alina’s voice cuts through the disorientation, and her hands steady my shoulders before I can fall. “Sit down slowly. Let me help you.”

She guides me back into the chair, her touch both firm and reassuring as the dizziness gradually subsides. The concern in her expression seems genuine, though something in her careful attention feels detached, as if she’s cataloguing my symptoms for future reference.

“I’m fine. I just stood up too fast.” The excuse sounds hollow even to my own ears, though it’s easier than admitting how frequently these episodes have been occurring.

“You need water, and you should elevate your feet.” She disappears from the office and returns within minutes carrying a crystal glass and a small ottoman. “Mr. Taranov read in his book that dizziness is common with multiple pregnancies, especiallywhen combined with stress, and asked me to watch you for bouts.”

The fact that she remembers details surprises me, though her attentiveness has been consistent since I moved into the estate. She’s helped coordinate the nursery renovations, managed contractor schedules, and somehow anticipated my needs before I voice them.

“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without your help lately.” I sip the water slowly, feeling my equilibrium return as she adjusts the ottoman beneath my feet. “Iskander has been so busy with business transitions that I’ve felt lost trying to manage everything else.”

Her expression shifts subtly, sympathy mixing with something else I can’t identify. “Pregnancy should be a time when partners support each other completely. Managing stress alone can be dangerous for both mother and babies.”

The observation is beyond simple concern for my health. Reacting to perceived criticism, I say, “He’s doing his best to balance protecting us with securing our future. I know the situation with Mikhail creates pressure that affects his ability to focus on anything else.”

“Of course, relationships require prioritization. When one partner consistently chooses external obligations over their family’s immediate needs, it might become a habit that continues even after the external pressures resolve.” She arranges the documents I’d been reviewing into neat stacks, her movements precise and unhurried. “You deserve to feel supported and valued, especially during such a vulnerable time.”

Her words echo concerns I’ve been trying to suppress while stirring fears that Iskander’s promises about leaving his criminal life might not actually happen. The man who holds me tenderly at night seems to disappear during daylight hours, replaced by someone whose attention belongs entirely to territorial wars and business negotiations.

“I try not to burden him with my worries when he’s dealing with so much else. The last thing he needs is a pregnant woman demanding constant reassurance about things he can’t control.” The admission is an acknowledgment of how isolated I’ve felt despite living in his home and sharing his bed.

“Your concerns aren’t burdens. They’re legitimate needs that deserve attention and care.” She settles into the chair across from me, her posture relaxed but her attention focused like a laser. “A man who truly prioritizes his family finds ways to provide emotional support regardless of whatever else is happening in his life.”

The gentle challenge in her voice forces me to examine the growing distance I’ve felt between Iskander and me, and the way conversations about my fears get postponed or dismissed when business demands his attention. The most recent bombing created another layer of distraction and another reason for him to retreat into the tactical planning that excludes me from everything meaningful.

“I love him, and I believe he loves me, but I’m starting to wonder if love is enough when competing with his other obligations.” The words emerge before I can stop them, carrying weeks of suppressed doubt that feels dangerous to voice aloud.

“That can’t work in the long-term.” She sounds certain. “You sacrifice your needs for his convenience, while he benefits fromyour willingness to accept less than you deserve.” She leans forward slightly, her voice dropping to something approaching confession. “I’ve watched many relationships crumble under unequal investment, particularly when external pressures provide convenient excuses for emotional neglect.”

The conversation feels simultaneously supportive and subversive, as if Alina is offering validation for thoughts I’ve been afraid to acknowledge. Her insights carry the wisdom of someone who’s observed relationship dynamics from a position of intimate access, though something in her manner suggests personal experience rather than mere observation.

“What would you suggest? I can’t demand his attention when people are trying to kill us, but I also can’t continue feeling like an afterthought in my own relationship.” The question reveals more vulnerability than I intended, but her empathetic responses have created a space for honesty I desperately need.

“You should be upfront about your needs and expectations while giving clear consequences if those needs continue being ignored.” She rests her hands in her lap. “Men like Mr. Taranov respond to directness rather than subtle hints about dissatisfaction. If you don’t advocate for yourself, no one else will.”

The suggestion of ultimatums feels both empowering and terrifying. Demanding Iskander’s emotional presence while he’s fighting for our physical survival seems selfish but continuing to accept neglect while carrying his children feels equally destructive.

“What if he can’t or won’t prioritize our relationship appropriately?” The question slips out and forces me to confrontpossibilities I’ve been avoiding except at the very edge of my conscious mind.

She sounds firm but sympathetic. “You must make decisions based on what’s best for you and the babies, regardless of how those decisions affect his plans or preferences. Your safety and well-being matter more than his convenience or the success of his business transitions.”

Something in her phrasing suggests deeper meaning, as if she’s offering more than relationship advice. The careful way she watches my reaction makes me wonder if she’s testing my willingness to consider options that extend beyond trying to make this situation work.

“Are you suggesting I should consider leaving?” The question emerges as a whisper, carrying implications that terrify me even as they offer a twisted kind of relief in acknowledging I’ve been thinking these things for days, if not weeks, but couldn’t bring myself to admit it.

“I’m suggesting you should consider all your options, including ones that prioritize your safety over his expectations.” She stands and moves to the window overlooking the gardens, where security guards maintain their constant patrols. “Sometimes love means making difficult choices that protect the people we care about most, even when those choices hurt.”