A few days later, Nikandr surprises me by suggesting we go shopping for the baby. Not online shopping with overnight delivery to the estate, but actual shopping in an actual store where normal people buy things for their children. “Are you sure?” I ask, looking up from the pregnancy book I’ve been reading in the sunroom. “Won’t that be a security risk?”
He closes his laptop and gives me a look that’s half-amusement, half-determination. “I think we can manage a trip to a baby boutique without causing an international incident.”
The drive into town feels surreal. I sit in the passenger seat of Nikandr’s understated sedan instead of the bulletproof SUV to which I’ve grown accustomed, watching familiar neighborhoods roll past the windows. Maksim follows in a second car at a discreet distance, but for the first time in weeks, I feel almost normal.
The boutique Nikandr chooses is in an upscale shopping district, where everything costs three times what it should but comes wrapped in tissue paper and tied with ribbon. A soft chime announces our arrival, and I’m immediately surrounded by the most beautiful baby things I’ve ever seen.
The scent of lavender and something clean and powdery that must be designed to make expectant mothers lose their minds with nesting instincts hits me. Display cases showcase handmade booties that cost more than my most expensive pair of shoes, and the lighting is soft and warm in a way that makes everything look like it belongs in a magazine.
“May I help you?” A woman in her fifties approaches with the kind of polished smile that suggests she works on commission. She take in Nikandr’s expensive watch and my obvious pregnancy, and her expression brightens considerably.
“We’re shopping for our first baby,” Nikandr says smoothly, resting his hand at the small of my back in a gesture that’s becoming natural between us.
“How wonderful. When are you due?”
“August,” I say, my voice coming out softer than usual. Saying it out loud to a stranger makes it feel more real somehow.
“A summer baby. How lovely. Are you finding out the gender?”
“It’s a girl,” Nikandr says, and there’s something in his voice—pride, maybe, or wonder—that makes my chest tighten with emotion.
The saleswoman clasps her hands together. “Oh, how perfect. We have the most beautiful selection for little girls. Follow me.”
I walk slowly through the store, past shelves lined with onesies in every imaginable color, pastel blankets so soft they feel like clouds, and impossibly tiny socks that make my chest ache with tenderness. Everything is perfect and precious and designed for babies who will grow up safe and loved and wanted.
A rack of newborn gowns catches my attention, with each one more delicate than the last. I touch the edge of a white cotton dress with tiny pink rosebuds embroidered around the neckline. The fabric is so soft it seems impossible that human hands could create something this fine. “This would be perfect for coming home from the hospital.” I lift it carefully from the rack.
He moves closer, studying the tiny garment. “It’s beautiful, like something for a princess.”
The way he says it, like he already sees our daughter as someone precious and worthy of beautiful things, makes my eyes ache with unshed tears. I’ve never had someone look at me and see potential royalty, but he looks at our unborn child and sees nothing but wonder.
I add the gown to our basket and continue browsing, running my fingers over soft blankets and miniature cardigans. Each item feels like a small act of faith, a belief that our daughter will arrive safely and grow up surrounded by love. “Look at this.” I pick up a stuffed bear with button eyes and a red ribbon around its neck. The fur is incredibly soft, and I picture our daughter holding it, sleeping with it curled against her chest, or carrying it with her as she takes her first steps and says her first words.
When I look up, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. There’s something tender in his eyes that makes my heart skip in ways that have nothing to do with pregnancy hormones.
“It’s perfect,” he says quietly. “She’ll love it.”
I set the bear carefully in the shopping basket we collected at the entrance, then move on to a display of newborn outfits. Everything is so impossibly small that it’s hard to believe a real person will actually wear these clothes.
A mobile hanging above the display catches my attention. It has delicate elephants in soft gray and white, dancing on nearly invisible strings. When I touch it gently, it spins with the softest chiming sound, like tiny bells in the distance. “Do you think she’ll be big or little?” I ask, holding up a onesie that couldn’t fit a doll and see the label reads “Micro-preemie,” which makes me sad.
“Healthy,” he says immediately. “That’s all that matters.”
I smile at his answer and add mobile to our basket after returning the tiny onesie, which I hope our daughter can never wear, to the rack. The elephants continue their gentle dance, and I imagine her lying in her crib, watching them spin.
I gravitate toward a section of baby books, running my fingers along the spines of classics I remember from my own childhood. “Goodnight Moon,” “Where the Wild Things Are,” and “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” among them. Each title brings back memories of my mother’s voice and the way she’d curl up beside me on my narrow twin bed to transform each story into an adventure.
A leather-bound collection of fairy tales catches my attention, and I pull it from the shelf. The cover is embossed with golden letters, and when I open it, the pages are filled with beautiful illustrations of princesses and castles and happily-ever-afters. “She should have stories,” I say, more to myself than to Nikandr. “Good ones. The kind that teach her she can be brave and strong and still believe in magic.”
He steps closer, looking over my shoulder at the delicate illustrations. “What kind of stories did your mother tell you?”
“All kinds, but my favorites were always the ones where the princess saved herself.” I turn to a page showing a girl with long dark hair climbing down from a tower using her own braided locks. “She used to say waiting for rescue was overrated.”
He chuckles. “Smart woman.”
“The smartest.” I close the book and add it to our growing collection before I pick up a board book with bright colors and simple words. “This one’s for when she’s little. Before she’s ready for princesses and adventures.”
I let out a soft gasp at a familiar title. “My mother used to read this one to me.” I pull out a copy of “Love You Forever.” I flip through the pages, remembering her voice and the way she’d change her tone for different characters. The familiar words blur slightly as unexpected tears prick my eyes.
He moves closer, looking over my shoulder at the illustrations. “What was she like?”
“Stubborn. Protective. She had this way of making everything seem possible, even when things were falling apart around us.” I close the book and add it to our growing collection. “She would have loved being a grandmother.”
“She would have loved you as a mother,” he says softly.
The simple statement makes me nod, and I have to blink back sudden tears. “I hope I can be half as good as she was.”
“You will be.” His certainty surprises me. “I’ve seen how you care for people. Our daughter is lucky to have you.”
I want to ask if he thinks she’s lucky to have him too, but something about the moment feels too fragile to push. Instead, I continue browsing, letting myself imagine bedtime stories, lullabies, and all the small rituals that will make up our daughter’s childhood.
By the time we reach the register, our basket is overflowing with the stuffed bear, several outfits in newborn and three-month sizes, the mobile with dancing elephants, soft blankets, books, and a ridiculous number of tiny socks that I couldn’t resist. The saleswoman beams at us as she begins scanning each item.
“First baby?” she asks, though the answer is obvious from the way I’m watching every item get carefully wrapped.
“Yes.” I touch my belly.
“It shows. First-time parents always buy the most beautiful things.” She holds up a pair of tiny booties covered in pearl buttons. “These are handmade by a local artisan. They’re some of our most popular items.”
I start to protest when I see the total climbing higher and higher on the register display, but Nikandr hands over his credit card without even blinking. The casual way he dismisses the expense—enough to cover my rent for two months—should probably bother me, but instead it makes me feel cared for in a way I’m not used to.
“This is too much,” I whisper as the clerk runs his card.
“It’s not nearly enough,” he counters, signing the receipt with quick, decisive strokes.
As the clerk carefully wraps each item in tissue paper and places them in elegant shopping bags with ribbon handles, I catch myself smiling. The whole process feels like a ritual, with each tiny outfit and soft blanket being prepared like gifts for a princess.
The saleswoman includes several samples of baby lotion and a small teddy bear as complimentary gifts. “Congratulations again,” she says as she hands us the bags. “Your daughter is very lucky.”
Walking out of the store with arms full of packages, I feel lighter than I have in months. This feels normal in a way I haven’t experienced since before everything changed. We’re just two expectant parents buying things for their baby and planning for a future that suddenly seems possible instead of terrifying.
When Nikandr places his hand on the small of my back, I don’t flinch away like I might have a week ago. The touch is warm and protective without being possessive, and I lean into it slightly as we walk.
“Thank you,” I say as we step out onto the sidewalk, “For letting me have something normal.”
“You don’t have to thank me for normal, Sabrina. You deserve normal.”
The way he says my name, soft and deliberate, makes something flutter in my chest. I’m not sure when the heat between us turned into something warmer and steadier. This feels less like desire and more like the foundation for something tangible.
We’re walking toward the car, my arms full of shopping bags, when I catch sight of a man in a dark jacket, leaning against a lamppost, and staring directly at us. He’s not moving or pretending to be doing anything else. He just watches with an intensity that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Something about his posture, and the way he holds himself perfectly still while everything around him moves, sends a surge of fear through me. He’s too focused and deliberate. Normal people don’t stand that way or stare that openly.
I slow my steps, trying to get a better look without being obvious about it. The man appears to be middle-aged and average height, with graying hair visible beneath a baseball cap. There’s nothing particularly distinctive about him except for that unnerving stare.
When I do a double take, shifting my bags to get a clearer view, he’s gone. He vanishes into the crowd of shoppers as if he was never there at all. I scan the sidewalk frantically, looking for any trace of the dark jacket or the baseball cap, but see nothing unusual.
“Everything okay?” asks Nikandr, following my gaze across the street.
I scan the sidewalk again, looking for any sign of the man in the dark jacket, but see nothing unusual. There are only normal people going about their lives, carrying shopping bags, pushing strollers, or talking on phones.
“Yeah,” I say finally, deciding not to mention what I saw. It could all be in my head anyway. Things have been peaceful lately, and maybe I’m just not used to feeling safe. Maybe I’m seeing threats that don’t exist because part of me is still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You sure?” His voice carries the kind of alertness that tells me he’s already shifting into protective mode.
“I’m sure. I thought I saw someone I recognized, but I was wrong.”
He doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he opens the passenger door for me and waits until I’m settled before closing it and walking around to the driver’s side.
As we pull away from the curb, I cradle the bag of baby clothes against my chest and let myself imagine what our life could look like with a normal family life. There will be bedtime stories, birthday parties, and school plays. I can picture it clearly. Not just surviving this situation or getting through the pregnancy but actually building something good together. Something real.
The thought should terrify me, but as I watch him drive, noting the careful way he checks the mirrors and the unconscious protectiveness in the way he positions himself between me and potential threats, I don’t feel afraid. I feel hopeful.
Maybe that’s naïve. Maybe I’m setting myself up for heartbreak by believing we can have something normal and beautiful together. Maybe, maybe, maybe… Sitting here with bags full of tiny clothes and impossible dreams, I can’t bring myself to care about the risks.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, glancing over at me.
“Baby names,” I lie, not ready to share the deeper thoughts swirling through my mind.
“Any ideas?”
“A few. What about you?”
He’s quiet for a moment, considering. “I keep thinking about my grandmother’s name, Elizabeth. It means grace in Russian.”
“Elizabeth,” I repeat, testing the sound of it. “I like it. It’s beautiful.”
“What about middle names?”
“Maybe something that honors my mother? Her name was Claire.”
“Elizabeth Claire.” He says it slowly, like he’s imagining calling our daughter by that name. “It’s perfect.”
The easy way we slip into planning our daughter’s name, and the natural rhythm of discussing our future fills me with calm confidence. This isn’t just about shared responsibility or physical attraction anymore but about building something together while creating a family that goes beyond the circumstances that brought us into each other’s lives.
When we arrive back at the estate, Nikandr insists on carrying all the shopping bags upstairs to the nursery he’s been having renovated. I follow him down the hall to a room I haven’t seen since the day I arrived, and when he opens the door, I gasp.
The space has been transformed into something out of a fairy tale. There are soft gray walls with white trim, a crib that looks like it was handcrafted by artists, and a rocking chair positioned perfectly by the window. Everything is elegant and beautiful and completely ready for our daughter’s arrival.
“When did you do all this?” I ask, running my fingers along the edge of the crib.
“I’ve been working on it since I found out you were pregnant. I hope you’ll stay long enough to use it.”
The carefully neutral way he phrases it tells me he’s trying not to pressure me, but there’s something vulnerable in his expression that suggests my answer matters more than he’s willing to admit.
“I’m sure I will. I like it here…with you.”
The admission surprises both of us, but it feels true in a way that has nothing to do with fear or obligation. I want to stay not because I have to, but because I can imagine being happy here with him, building the kind of life our daughter deserves.
As we unpack the shopping bags together, arranging tiny outfits in the dresser and placing the stuffed bear in the crib, I let myself believe maybe fairy tales can come true, and two people from completely different worlds can find a way to build something beautiful together.
Maybe this can actually be real.
