Fourteen weeks later, my life is unrecognizable in the best possible way. I wake early in our new bedroom to sunlight through windows that aren’t bulletproof, in a house that sprawls across three acres of manicured lawn without a single guard tower or defensive position in sight. The morning air smells like the lavender I planted along the front walkway instead of gunpowder and fear.
This house is huge and sprawling, with enough rooms for our growing family and guests who might actually visit for pleasure rather than business meetings. The exterior is a cheerful white, and one of the first things we did was higher painters to make the shutters bright yellow. The kitchen has an island the size of my old apartment, and there’s a reading nook by the bay window where I can already picture myself nursing our daughter while watching her father work in the garden we’re planning.
I pad downstairs in my robe, moving carefully around the bulk of my belly at thirty-eight weeks pregnant. Every step feels deliberate now with my center of gravity shifted so dramatically that I have to think about simple movements that used to be automatic. The baby seems to be running out of room, and her kicks are stronger as she prepares for her arrival.
Coffee is off the menu right now, so I settle for herbal tea while checking emails on my phone. It’s mostly spam, but there’s a message from Dr. Price confirming my appointment for later this week.
Nikandr’s voice carries from his office down the hall, talking to someone about square footage and zoning permits rather than territory disputes or ammunition supplies. “The inspection is scheduled for Friday, and I want everything perfect before the tenants move in,” he says into the phone. “This property represents our reputation in the market.”
Our reputation. The words make me smile because they represent everything we’ve built together over the past few months. Nikandr’s real estate investments have become a full-time occupation as he manages residential and commercial properties with the same attention to detail he once applied to criminal operations.
I make breakfast while listening to him conduct business, fixing scrambled eggs with cheese, toast with the strawberry jam Jessie brought from the farmers market, and fresh avocado from our own tree. The domestic routine feels surreal after everything we’ve survived, though I’m grateful for every peaceful moment.
We eat together as we do most mornings before he returns to his office for a bit. Jessie arrives just as I’m finishing the dishes, letting herself in through the front door with arms full of grocery bags and energy levels suggesting she’s been caffeinating since dawn.
“How are we feeling today?” She sets the bags on the counter and immediately places both hands on my belly, checking for movement with the familiarity of someone who’s been tracking my pregnancy almost as closely as I have. “Any signs that little miss is ready to make her appearance?”
“I can’t speak for her, but I’m restless, uncomfortable, and so ready for her to meet her parents.” I lean against the kitchen island, grateful for the support. “Dr. Price says any day now, though first babies are notorious for being fashionably late, and I have two weeks to go officially.”
“Good thing, because I brought enough food to last through a siege.” She begins unpacking groceries. “I have healthy frozen meals, snacks for the hospital, and that ice cream you’ve been craving.”
The care package represents weeks of planning and is her way of ensuring I don’t have to worry about mundane concerns when labor begins. She’s been at my side throughout this pregnancy, especially when I told her she is going to be Elizabeth’s godmother.
“You don’t have to take care of me like this.”
She grins. “Yes, I do. You’re my best friend, you’re about to become a mother.” She pauses in her unpacking to meet my eyes. “Besides, someone needs to make sure you eat actual vegetables instead of living on ice cream and pregnancy cravings.”
Before I can respond, there’s a knock at the front door. Nikandr emerges from his office to answer it, greeting Maksim with the kind of casual warmth that’s developed between them since the transition of power. They embrace like old friends, and I’m struck by how normal the interaction appears.
“I have paperwork for the downtown property that somehow got mixed up in the…other portfolio,” Maksim says, handing over a manila envelope. Maksim grins and nods toward me. “How’s the expectant mother?”
“Ready to not be pregnant anymore,” I say, shifting position to relieve pressure on my lower back. “I suppose that’s normal at this stage.”
“My sister said the same thing during her last month. Then she missed being pregnant almost the moment her daughter arrived. That might be why she has four daughters.” He checks his watch and moves toward the door. “I should let you rest. Call if you need anything before the baby comes.”
The easy interaction fills me with contentment because it represents the kind of relationships we can build now. Maksim stops by because he cares about our wellbeing, not because he needs approval for criminal operations.
After lunch, I settle in the living room with a book about infant sleep schedules, though concentration proves difficult when the baby seems determined to practice gymnastics against my ribs. The pressure in my lower back has been building all morning, becoming a dull ache that makes sitting uncomfortable and standing worse.
I shift position on the couch, trying to find relief, when the first real contraction rolls through me like a wave. It starts as pressure, builds to genuine discomfort, then fades gradually while leaving me breathless and slightly panicked.
Labor. This is actually happening.
The next contraction comes twelve minutes later, strong enough to make me lean forward and grip the arm of the couch. I breathe through it the way we practiced in childbirth class, counting slowly until the intensity peaks and begins to subside.
By the time the third contraction hits, I know this isn’t Braxton Hicks. This is our daughter announcing her intention to join the world today, ready or not. “Nikandr,” I call toward his office, trying to keep my voice steady despite the mounting excitement and fear. “I think it’s time.”
He appears in the doorway immediately, takes one look at my face, and transitions into the kind of focused calm that used to terrify his enemies. He shows no panic or rushed movements. Just purposeful action guided by weeks of preparation. “How far apart are the contractions?”
“About ten minutes. This is the third one.” When he walks closer, I grip his hand as another wave begins to build. “They’re getting stronger and closer together.”
He helps me to my feet and guides me toward the hall closet, where our hospital bag has been packed and waiting for weeks. Everything we need is organized and ready. There are clothes for me and the baby, important documents, phone chargers, an expensive camera, and snacks for what could be a very long day.
“Should we call Dr. Price?” he asks.
“Let’s wait until they’re closer together. She said to come in when they’re five minutes apart or my water breaks.” I lean against him as another contraction builds, this one strong enough to make me close my eyes and focus entirely on breathing. “Though at this rate, that might not take long.”
We time the contractions while gathering last-minute items, and sure enough, they intensify and move closer together with remarkable speed. By the time we’re ready to leave for the hospital, they’re coming every seven minutes and strong enough to make conversation difficult.
The drive to the hospital feels surreal after months of being driven everywhere in armored vehicles with armed escorts. Nikandr is behind the wheel of our family car with no security detail following us. We’re just two people heading to the hospital to welcome their first child. It’s normal, domestic, and exactly what I dreamed of during the darkest moments of our relationship.
“Are you nervous?” I ask between contractions, watching his profile as he navigates traffic with careful attention.
“Terrified. Excited. Anxious to meet our daughter.” He reaches over to squeeze my hand. “You?”
“All of that, plus wondering if I’m actually ready to be someone’s mother.” I have some doubt about squeezing out a baby too, but I don’t burden him with that.
“You’ve been ready since the moment you found out you were pregnant. I’ve watched you prepare for this, plan for every possibility, and love her before you’ve even met her.” His voice carries absolute certainty. “She’s lucky to have you as a mother.”
The hospital feels welcoming rather than threatening, with cheerful nurses who guide us through admission paperwork and preparation for what could be a long labor. They settle me into a private room with windows overlooking the city, and for the first time in years, I’m in a medical facility because something wonderful is happening rather than because someone I love is dying, or someone tried to kill us.
Labor progresses steadily though not quickly, with contractions that build in intensity while never quite becoming unbearable. Nikandr stays beside me through every wave, offering water and encouragement and the kind of steady presence that makes me feel safe even when the pain becomes overwhelming.
Hours pass in a blur of breathing exercises, position changes, and medical monitoring that confirms our daughter is handling the stress of birth beautifully. The sun sets outside our window, and we wait, working together toward the moment when our family will finally be complete.
When the pushing stage finally arrives, everything happens quickly. After hours of gradual progress, suddenly there’s urgency and purpose and the incredible sensation of our daughter moving through my body toward her first breath.
“I can see her head,” Dr. Price says with professional excitement. “One more good push, Sabrina.”
I bear down with everything I have, and suddenly she’s here. She’s slippery, perfect, and screaming with healthy indignation at being evicted from her warm, dark home. The room goes still for a moment as everyone processes the miracle of new life.
A girl, as expected. Healthy and strong, with dark hair like her father and lungs that announce her displeasure at being born. “Elizabeth Claire,” I whisper as they place her on my chest, skin to skin, her tiny body warm and impossibly real against mine. “Hello, beautiful girl.”
I hold my daughter against my chest, exhausted and trembling with emotion and the aftermath of birth. She’s perfect in every way that matters—ten fingers, ten toes, a button nose, and the kind of fierce expression that suggests she inherited my determination along with his coloring.
Nikandr stands beside the bed watching us both, and I’ve never seen him look so stunned or completely overwhelmed by emotion. He doesn’t say much as he reaches out to stroke her tiny cheek with one finger while tears stream down his face. “She’s beautiful,” he finally manages, his voice rough with wonder. “Absolutely perfect.”
“Do you want to hold her?”
He nods and carefully takes our daughter in his arms, supporting her head with the kind of reverence usually reserved for priceless artifacts. Elizabeth settles immediately against his chest, as she recognizes his voice from months of hearing it through my belly.
Looking at them together, this is the happiest I’ve ever been.
