Chapter 39: Filthy Lies: Chapter 39

A mother knows when the monsters retreat.

After forty-eight hours of hell, Sofiya’s fever breaks like a wave crashing against the shore—violent at first, then gradually receding until only a subtle warmth remains.

The doctors confirm for the umpteenth time what I already knew: that it was just a virus, nothing sinister. Definitely nothing engineered by our growing list of enemies. No poison, no attack. Just the ordinary, run-of-the-mill suffering that comes with being human.

Ordinary. What a fucking concept.

I watch Vince touch his lips to our daughter’s forehead one last time before he leaves for Costa Rica. His eyes are still haunted by doubt. Even with proof in hand, he can’t bring himself to believe that sometimes, bad things simply happen without malice behind them.

“I’ll call when I land,” he says without meeting my eyes.

“Take as long as you need.” I don’t mean for it to sound dismissive, but it does. “The situation there sounds complicated.”

“Three days. Four at most.” His hand lingers on the doorframe. “Full security detail remains in place. Don’t leave the compound without⁠—”

“Without an armed escort, emergency protocols, and my tracking necklace.” I finish his sentence with a tight smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I know the drill, Vince.”

His jaw twitches. “This isn’t a game, Rowan.”

“Trust me,” I say with a grimace. “I’m painfully aware.”

After he’s gone, the compound feels emptier, but I breathe easier. Without Vince’s suffocating paranoia coating every surface, the air feels less heavy.

I tuck Sofiya into her crib for her nap. I can’t stop myself from checking again and again, but every time I do, her forehead remains mercifully cool beneath my palm.

I should sleep, too. God knows I need it after the hospital nightmare.

But as I stand to leave, an unexpected wave of nausea hits me like a sucker punch. I barely make it to the bathroom before emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet.

When I stand on shaky legs and rinse my mouth, a thought forms, unwelcome and intrusive.

Didn’t I experience this exact same nausea before? About, oh… ten months ago?

I stare at my reflection, counting backwards. My period is late. Not alarming on its own—stress does weird things to a woman’s body, and it’s the understatement of the year to say I’ve been stressed. But combined with the nausea…

“No,” I whisper to my ghost-white reflection. “Not now.”

But my body has already made the decision without consulting me.

Cut to a few panic-stricken minutes later. I’m staring at a pregnancy test I stole from the back of my bathroom cabinet. Two perfectly pink lines stare back at me, clinical and unambiguous.

Pregnant.

Again.

I slide down the bathroom wall until I hit the cold marble floor, test still clutched in my hand. Tears burn behind my eyes, but they’re not tears of joy.

Not this time.

The timing is fucked. We’re surrounded on all sides—Solovyov’s men attacking our shipments, Barkov lurking in the wings, Andrei still under house arrest but never truly contained, and Grigor Petrov lurking at the cemetery and his letters full of promises.

All I can think is that I’m an awful person no matter which way you slice it.

What kind of mother willingly brings another child into this?

What kind of mother even hesitates at the miracle growing inside her?

I’m as horrified as I am elated. Two conflicting emotions butting heads inside me. I press my palm against my still-flat stomach, trying to connect with the life that might be forming there.

A brother or sister for Sofiya.

Another human we’ll have to protect.

Another hostage for the world to snatch away.

The test slips from my numb fingers and clatters to the floor. I need to think, to process. But the walls are closing in, the reality of our life suddenly laid bare in all its ugliness.

My rose-colored glasses were shattered a long time ago. Since then, life has just stomped on the shards again and again.

This is our reality.

This is our child’s reality.

And now, potentially, another child’s.

The pregnancy test mocks me from where it’s fallen on the floor. Two pink lines that whisper, Here we go again, with all the subtle cruelty of a loaded gun pointed at my temple. A life sentence that I didn’t ask for, didn’t plan for, but somehow have been granted anyway. Again.

Life’s fucking hilarious that way.

I should be overjoyed, though, right? I mean, women spend fortunes trying to conceive. Somewhere out there, some desperate soul is ready to sacrifice absolutely everything she’s ever had for the chance to feel what I’m feeling right now.

But all I can think about is Sofiya’s tiny body burning with fever in that hospital bed. Or Vince’s face carved from granite as he stationed armed men at every entrance, convinced our enemies had poisoned our baby. Or the weight of his tracking necklace against my skin, a collar disguised as jewelry.

Another baby isn’t just another baby.

It’s another target.

But this could be wrong, couldn’t it? Maybe morning sickness is a liar. This isn’t morning, and what I’m feeling isn’t just sick. It’s terror so absolute it practically has its own heartbeat.

I flush the toilet and scrub my face. The woman in the mirror doesn’t look like me anymore. She’s harder, sharper. Eyes that have seen too much. A mouth that’s spoken too many half-truths to ever be entirely honest again.

A knock on the door jolts me back to reality.

“Rowan?” Anastasia’s voice filters through. “Are you alright?”

I kick the pregnancy test under the vanity. “Fine,” I call back. “Just a minute.”

When I open the door, Anastasia stands there with Sofiya balanced on her hip. My daughter’s chubby cheeks are still flushed, but her eyes are clear, focused. She reaches for me with grabby hands.

“She was crying,” Anastasia explains, handing Sofiya over. “I thought you might want her.”

“Thanks.” I bury my face in Sofiya’s chubby neck and kiss her velvet skin. “She feels cooler.”

“The fever’s definitely gone.” Anastasia studies me, head tilted. “You, however, look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I force a laugh. “Just tired. It’s been a long few days.”

She doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way her perfectly shaped eyebrows draw together. “Tea? I just made a pot.”

I should say no. Should retreat to my room with Sofiya and sit in my spiral of fear alone.

But suddenly, the thought of solitude feels suffocating.

“Sure. Tea sounds nice.” I follow her to the kitchen, Sofiya on my hip.

The tea is some fancy Russian blend that smells like citrus and cardamom. Anastasia pours it with an easy grace that makes me feel clumsy in comparison.

Even after weeks of hiding out in our compound, she still manages to look like she’s stepped off a runway—hair perfectly styled, makeup flawless, posture regal.

I, meanwhile, am in Vince’s old Harvard t-shirt and leggings, with unwashed hair and dark circles that makeup couldn’t begin to hide, even if I had bothered to apply any.

She sets a cup in front of me. “So are you going to tell me what’s really wrong, or should I pretend to believe you’re just tired?”

I set Sofiya on the floor for tummy time amongst some toys. “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.” The elegant profanity sounds strange in her refined accent. “I know that look. I had the same one, not so long ago. Still do most days.”

I trace the rim of my teacup. “It’s complicated.”

“We’re hiding from our families in a fortress while our men try to prevent wars on multiple fronts.” Anastasia sips her tea daintily and laughs. “Everything is complicated.”

Something convinces me to unclench. Maybe it’s that she’s the only other woman who might understand this fucked-up life we’ve chosen. Or it’s just that I’m tired of carrying secrets that weigh more than I can bear.

“I think I’m pregnant,” I say finally.

Anastasia sets down her teacup with a delicate clink. “I see. Have you told Vincent?”

“He just left for Costa Rica.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I look away. “No. I haven’t told him.”

“Why not?” She tilts her head. “I would think he’d be thrilled.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “You saw what he was like when Sofiya had a fever. He turned that hospital into a goddamn war zone, convinced someone had poisoned her. And now—” I gesture helplessly. “Another thing to fuel all his worst instincts?”

“Another miracle,” Anastasia counters softly.

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one bringing children into this fucked-up world we’ve created.”

“No.” She glances down at her flat stomach. “Not yet, anyway.”

I gawk at her. “Are you⁠—”

“No.” She shakes her head quickly. “But someday, yes. Dan and I want children. Even knowing what that means in our world.”

“How can you even consider it?” I whisper. “After everything you’ve seen? Everything you know about this life?”

Anastasia is quiet for a moment, watching Sofiya play with a rattle. “My grandmother lived through the siege of Leningrad,” she says finally. “Nearly two years of starvation, bombings, death everywhere. People ate wallpaper paste to survive.” Her eyes meet mine. “She told me once that, even during the darkest days, babies were born. Women fell in love. People found moments of joy between the horrors.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” She leans forward. “Our world has always been dangerous, Rowan. The threats just change shape. My family has been Bratva for generations. Yes, children have been targeted. Yes, some have died. But many more have lived, have thrived, have found happiness despite it all.”

“I can’t bear the thought of something happening to them.” I sniffle and rub at my eyes. “To either of them. I already feel like I can’t breathe sometimes, worrying about Sofiya. Another baby…”

“—is another reason to fight for a better world.” Anastasia reaches across the table and takes my hand. Her grip is surprisingly strong. “Not a reason to despair that the world isn’t better yet.”

Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them back furiously. “When did you get so damn wise?”

“When someone tried to kill me for loving the wrong man.” Her smile is razor-sharp. “Tends to clarify one’s priorities.”

Sofiya babbles loudly, drawing our attention. She’s trying to stack blocks but keeps knocking them over, her tiny face scrunched in concentration.

“Look at her,” Anastasia says quietly. “She has no idea that men with guns guard her playroom. She just knows she’s loved. That her parents would burn down the world to keep her safe.”

“That’s the problem,” I whisper. “We have been burning down the world. And for what? So our children can inherit the ashes?”

“Or perhaps to clear space for something new to grow.” Anastasia squeezes my hand once before releasing it. “The old ways are dying, Rowan. Your man and mine—they’re building something different. Something that might actually last.”

I want to believe her. God, I want to so badly it feels like a physical ache in my chest.

“What if we’re wrong?” I ask, voicing my deepest fear. “What if all we’re doing is perpetuating the cycle? Violence breeding more violence, generation after generation?”

“Then we fail.” She shrugs. “But at least we tried to build something beautiful in the midst of all this ugliness.”

I look at Sofiya. Her dark curls bounce as she knocks over her tower again. The fierce protectiveness I feel for her doesn’t diminish at the thought of another child. If anything, it expands.

“I need to be sure,” I say, more to myself than to Anastasia. “These tests can be wrong. And I want—I need—to process this before I tell Vince.”

“Of course.” Anastasia stands and gathers our teacups. “Though I think you underestimate him. For all his faults, Vincent loves being a father.”

“It’s not that I think he won’t be happy about the baby,” I explain. “It’s that I’m afraid of what he’ll do to protect it. There are lines I’m not sure I want him to cross. Lines I’m not sure I want to cross.”

“Some lines exist to be crossed, Rowan.” Anastasia’s voice hardens. “When it comes to protecting your children, there are no limits. That’s something our men understood long before we did.”

A chill runs down my spine at the steel in her tone. Poised, elegant Anastasia suddenly revealing the fangs behind her perfect smile.

“I’ll get another test tomorrow,” I decide. “Just to be certain. Then I can figure out how to tell him.”

“A wise decision.” She gives me a knowing look. “Though I suspect deep down, you already know the truth.”

My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach. She’s right—I do know. The same intuition that told me when Sofiya was in danger now whispers that another life has begun inside me.

“How do you do it?” I ask suddenly. “Live with this fear every day without letting it consume you?”

Anastasia considers this, her face serious. “I don’t fight the fear,” she answers finally. “I acknowledge it. I respect it, even. And then I decide that love is worth the risk.” She smiles. It’s a sad, beautiful thing. “Besides, what’s the alternative? To live half a life because we’re afraid of losing it? No, no. That’s not living at all.”

Sofiya chooses that moment to topple her block tower again, this time laughing delightedly at the destruction she’s caused. The sound is so pure, so unburdened, that it pierces straight through my chest.

This is why we do it. This is why we risk everything.

For moments like this. For laughter in the midst of chaos. For love that blooms in the most hostile conditions.

“I should put her down for another nap,” I say, scooping up my daughter. “Thank you, Anastasia.”

She nods. “We’re in this together now, aren’t we? For better or worse.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “We are.”

I take Sofiya back to her crib, her eyelids already drooping with sleep. My fingers brush against my stomach again, and I wonder about the tiny spark that might be kindling there.

“What do you think, Sofi?” I whisper to my drowsy daughter. “Would you like a little brother or sister to boss around?”

She yawns, utterly unconcerned with my existential crisis.

My phone buzzes with a text from Vince: Landed safely. Hotel secure. How’s our girl?

I gaze at the screen for longer than I ought to. What do I say? She’s fine. Oh, and by the way, I might be pregnant again during the worst possible time in our catastrophe of a life?

No. Not yet. Not until I’m absolutely certain. Not until I can deliver the news with conviction rather than fear.

Fever’s gone completely, I type instead. She’s back to destroying block towers and babbling in her secret language.

Three dots appear as Vince types his response. Good. Miss you both.

My throat tightens. Despite everything, he loves us. Truly, deeply loves us.

And that love, twisted as it sometimes may be, is the foundation everything else is built on.

We miss you too, I reply. Come home soon.

I set my phone aside and watch Sofiya sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll get another test to confirm what my body already knows.

But today… Today, I’ll allow myself to imagine a future where our children play without armed guards watching from the shadows. Where Vince’s smile comes easier and stays longer. Where we build something that outlasts the destruction we’ve caused.

“Is this a fantasy?” I whisper to the ceiling. “Or is it a map to somewhere we could actually go?”

From the doorway, Anastasia’s voice startles me. “The difference between fantasy and reality,” she says softly, “is simply a matter of how badly you want it—and what you’re willing to sacrifice to make it happen.”

I turn to find her leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. In the dim light of the nursery, her expression is unreadable.

“And what if the sacrifice is too great?” I ask. “What if the price is our souls?”

Her smile is knife-sharp in the shadows. “Oh, Rowan,” she says, “haven’t you realized yet? We gave those up a long time ago.”