Some nights, I wondered if I had only traded one kind of danger for another, the kind that moved slower and stayed out of sight. I didn’t let myself sit with that for long.
Readiness didn’t happen by accident. I built it the only way I could, in pieces, while staying hard to track. My body learned to move without hesitation, to keep my balance with weight in my arms and to use force only to make room to leave.
She learned too. Stillness meant stop. A hand on her shoulder meant silence. Face tucked into my neck meant I was handling something and she wasn’t to look. We practiced until it stopped feeling like practice. It became routine, as normal as brushing her teeth or tying her shoes.
Bravery was never the goal. Readiness was, and that’s what matters when things go bad.
So when an investment under Markov’s name finally came due and they said I had to show up in person to claim it, I went. That money was Mila’s. It was mine to secure. It meant stability, better schools, and fewer nights with me checking doors and windows. I told myself I could get in, sign, take what was ours, and get out.
I went back to Saint Petersburg.
It didn’t hit me right away. It hit later. Money leaves a trail, even when people forget. The second I walked into that bank, I stepped into a system I should’ve known was still there. The cameras caught me. The account moved.
“Dormant” didn’t mean gone. It meant untouched.
By the time I reached the counter, the system had already marked the movement. An alert moved through channels that never sleep.
Locate her.
Secure the child.
Resolve the file.
What I didn’t understand then was that the same thing that exposed me also gave us a little cover. The money had been tied to his watch long before I touched it. If it moved, he’d know before the others did.
I thought walking into that bank was a mistake. Maybe it was. But hiding hadn’t fixed anything either. The debt was still there. The ledger was still there. And as long as it stayed there, Mila and I were never going to be safe.
Seeing him here with Mila changes something I’ve avoided for years. The way he bends toward her, shoulders tight, attention fixed, makes it impossible to keep pretending. I told myself I was running from danger, but I was also running toward a life that only worked if I stayed alone and kept moving. Standing here with him and Mila, I feel how tired I am of carrying everything by myself.
I don’t want to do it alone anymore. Mila needs her father.
Dominik adjusts Mila’s blanket once, then again, and rests his fingers lightly at the base of her throat until her breathing steadies into a rhythm he seems to trust. He doesn’t look at me while he does it.
I stand in the doorway and watch, knowing this moment matters more than the clinic did, more than the blood, more than the results folded into envelopes that now sit on the kitchen table. This is the first time he has checked her like this, knowing what he knows.
When he steps back, he pulls the door almost shut but leaves it a little open, so if Mila wakes or needs us, she can find us without having to push the door. Then he walks past me without a word. My body still goes tight.
With Markov, this was how it started before the punishment came.
I know what I did. I kept Mila from him. I decided what he was allowed to know and when. I made calls that touched his reach and his safety, and in my world, that always comes back to you. You pay for it one way or another.
So I wait for the moment he names it. Something cutting. A question. A shift in tone. Something that tells me where I stand now.
None comes. Instead, he moves through the house. He locks the front door, then checks it again. He tests the back latch and reinforces it with the bar we installed but never used. He moves the chair that sits too close to the window and adjusts the curtain so the light from outside no longer cuts through the room. He does all of this without hurry and without explanation.
He doesn’t question me. He doesn’t ask me to explain, and he doesn’t ask for an apology. He doesn’t take anything from me. He just moves through the house, locking doors, checking sightlines, shifting things so less can be seen from outside.
Every choice he makes stays where he puts it. The house starts to feel different around us, and I understand this is his answer.
He isn’t standing here judging me. He’s taking stock and moving us forward.
When he’s done, he comes into the kitchen and picks up the clinic papers. He looks through them once, not reading so much as checking that nothing’s missing, then slides them back into the folder and sets it by the door where he keeps keys and documents. He still doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t ask anything.
The kettle clicks off. I realize I turned it on earlier and forgot about it. The shift happens without a word, and that’s what gets to me. He’s already deciding what happens next. If there’s a price for any of this, he’ll decide how we pay it.
I pour water into two cups and set one near him, like I always do. He doesn’t touch it. The room feels too tight, and I crack first.
“Are you going to say something to me?” I ask, and I regret it the second it comes out.
