“You’ve claimed her. Not just for the plan. For real.”
I don’t answer immediately. The image of Anja at dinner the other night, laughing softly at Arina’s stories, one hand unconsciously resting over her stomach. The image flashes through my mind. The way she looked up at me on the terrace, trusting me enough to lean into my side.
“Yes,” I say finally. “She’s mine. And the child is mine. Fadir will regret every lie he’s spreading. But more than that… I will make sure Anja never has to fear her past or her future again.”
“Good. Family first. Always.” Tikhon nods, a rare hint of approval in his eyes.
He leaves me alone in the war room.
I remain at the table a moment longer, staring at the reports spread before me. The fury still simmers, but beneath it is something fiercer. Something deep with an unshakable resolve.
Fadir thinks he can claim my child and my woman with words.
He has no idea how thoroughly I will make him pay. How completely I will protect what belongs to me.
Chapter 19 - Anja
The pregnancy has made my body feel foreign to me.
Every morning, I wake up aware of the subtle changes. My breasts are more sensitive, my stomach slightly queasy even when the nausea has passed, and a strange heaviness is settling low in my pelvis that reminds me constantly that I am no longer just surviving on my own. There is life inside me now. Tiny, insistent, rewriting everything I thought I knew about control and independence.
Tonight, the emotional wave crashes harder than usual.
I sit on the edge of the bed in the family compound wing that Alexey has set me up in, hands trembling as I stare at the sonogram photo from today’s appointment. The suite is beautiful in a way that still feels too much.
The bedroom is spacious and softly lit, with pale cream walls and heavy silk drapes that frame tall windows overlooking the estate gardens. A king-sized bed dominates the center, dressed in crisp white linens and a soft gray throw that matches the upholstered armchair in the corner. Fresh flowers, always white roses and lavender, sit on the nightstand, their scent gentle and calming.
There’s a private sitting area with a small sofa and a bookshelf already stocked with novels and pregnancy guides that Alexey must have ordered without telling me. The en-suite bathroom is all marble and soft lighting, with a deep soaking tub I haven’t used yet because the idea of relaxing feels dangerous right now.
It’s luxurious. Very secure. Everything the frightened girl from back home could have dreamed of, and yet I feel like an imposter sitting here.
The tiny profile of our baby stares back at me from the sonogram printout. It’s a delicate curve of head, the suggestion of a nose, the faint flicker of movement that Dr. Morozova pointed out as a strong heartbeat. Tears blur my vision. Suddenly, all the old voices flood in, loud and cruel, the ones I thought I was able to outrun when I left home at eighteen.
I’ve spent years believing I’m inherently “less than.”
The shame of the Kuzmin name followed me like a grotesque ogre into the city. Every relationship since then carried that quiet terror: the waiting for the moment someone realized I am “less than” and walked away.
Now I’m sitting in this beautiful suite, pregnant with Alexey Sokolov’s child, and the fear is louder than ever.
Alexey finds me there, still clutching the sonogram photo like a lifeline.
He must have knocked softly, but I didn’t hear it because suddenly he’s in the doorway, and his brown eyes immediately lock onto my face. He’s still dressed from the day in a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and the faint stubble along his jaw making him look both dangerous and unbearably human.
“Anja?” His voice is low, careful. “What’s wrong?”
The words tumble out in a rush I can’t stop.
I tell him everything.
How my mother’s abandonment taught me early that I’m forgettable, and the kind of person people can leave without looking back. How my father’s chaos made me believe I’m only worth what I can offer or endure.
That I’ve carried this quiet shame into every relationship since, always waiting for the moment someone realizes I’mdamaged goods and walks away. Even now, with his child growing inside me, a small terrified part of me wonders if Alexey will eventually see the same broken girl from back home and regret choosing me.
The confession pours out between sobs, raw and ugly and years in the making. I can’t look at him while I speak. I stare at the sonogram instead, at the tiny profile that represents everything terrifying and wonderful at once.
Alexey listens without interruption.
He crosses the room slowly and sits beside me on the edge of the bed, his large hand coming to rest steady and warm on my back. He doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t offer empty reassurances. He simply listens, thumb tracing slow circles between my shoulder blades as the words finally run dry.
