Arina was waiting in the hallway when we arrived.
The moment she sees Anja, my sister’s face lights up with that fierce, warm energy only she possesses. She pulls Anja into a tight hug without hesitation, wrapping her arms around her like she’s known her for years.
“Welcome to the madhouse,” Arina says, voice muffled against Anja’s hair. “You know, the sister who keeps these stubborn men from burning everything down. And you…” She pulls back, grinning as she looks Anja up and down, “…are finally the real woman Alexey’s brought home instead of another damn strategy.”
I shoot her a warning look. Arina just laughs.
“Relax, brother. She’s carrying your child. The least you can do is let me tease you about it.” She turns back to Anja,squeezing her shoulders gently. “If you need anything, clothes that actually fit as you grow, someone to rant at, or just quiet company, I’m right down the hall. Katya sent a message through Tikhon. She wants you to know she’s here when you’re ready to talk about any of it. Her own experiences, advice, whatever you need. No pressure.”
“Thank you. Both of you.” Anja manages a small, genuine smile.
That evening, we gathered for dinner in the main dining room. The long oak table is set simply but warmly with roasted lamb, fresh vegetables from the garden, and bread still warm from the oven.
Tikhon sits at one end, his massive frame somehow fitting comfortably in the chair as he relays Katya’s messages with his usual gruff affection. Arina dominates the conversation with her sharp wit, ribbing me about my “patient sniper approach to romance” and how I have finally been caught off guard by something I couldn’t plan for.
Anja sits beside me, quiet at first, but gradually relaxing as Arina tells stories about our childhood. Like the time I tried to out-strategize our father at age fourteen and ended up locked in the library for three days with only Sun Tzu for company.
When Anja laughs softly, it surprises me with how it lights up her face. Something dangerous twists in my chest, and I shift in my chair.
I watch her across the table as she listens to Arina, her hair with its auburn highlights catching the candlelight, and her eyes soften with genuine amusement.
She looks like she belongs here. Not as a tactical asset in a revenge plot, but as part of the family.
My mind wanders unbidden to the future: Anja wearing my ring, our child in her arms, Sunday dinners where her laugh becomes a regular sound instead of a rare gift.
I am already imagining her as something permanent.
Fadir’s first major public humiliation lands that same week.
We have purposely leaked photos from one of our recent events with Anja on my arm in that sleek emerald gown, my hand resting at the small of her back. The images hit the right circles: society pages, business networks, the underworld whispers that matter.
By mid-week, surveillance footage shows Fadir in one of his remaining safe houses, staring at a tablet. His face has drained of color when he sees Anja clearly pregnant, and rumors are already swirling in the captions. The message is unmistakable: everything he thought he owned is slipping away. The woman he tried to trap now stands beside his enemy, carrying his child, while his empire crumbles around him.
I watch the footage in my office at the compound, jaw tight with satisfaction. But the revenge no longer burns as the primary fire inside me.
The pregnancy has instantly shifted my focus.
My usual restrained patience now carries a more personal edge. Every decision, every move against Fadir is filtered through one overriding imperative: nothing and no one will touch Anja or our unborn child.
Suppliers who hesitate receive faster pressure. Leaks become more precise. The slow dismantling continues with accounts frozen, allies turning, his public image fracturing further, but for the first time, revenge feels secondary.
What matters most is the fierce protectiveness that surges through me every time I look at the woman carrying my child.
That evening, after dinner, I find Anja on the terrace overlooking the gardens. She stands at the stone railing, one hand resting lightly over her stomach, the evening breeze lifting strands of her hair. I approach quietly, stopping beside her without crowding.
“Arina’s stories are dangerous. I almost forgot how terrifying this all is for a minute.” She glances at me, a small smile touching her lips.
“You don’t have to carry the fear alone anymore.” I reach out, covering her hand with mine, where it rests on her stomach.
She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans into my side just slightly. It’s the first voluntary closeness since the news of the pregnancy.
The slow squeeze on Fadir continues in the background.
But as I stand there with Anja under the fading light, feeling the tiny, impossible reality of our child between us, I know the truth with absolute clarity:
Revenge is no longer the center of this war.
Protecting my family is.
