The pain shooting through Sarah Mitchell’s arm wasn’t the kind of pain a person forgot. It wasn’t sharp like a knife or hot like fire—it was a deep, heavy throb that pulsed with every terrified heartbeat. Yet even that pain—radiating from the unnatural angle of her right arm—was nothing next to the terror clawing up her throat as she crouched in the corner of the bathroom inside a Riverside Apartments unit in downtown Denver, Colorado. Cold tile pressed against her cheek where she’d fallen earlier. Her phone trembled in her good hand, her fingertips slick with sweat. She tasted blood on her lip, coppery and warm, the metallic sting of it almost grounding her. Almost.

Outside the thin hollow-core door, Derrick paced the small bedroom like a caged dog, his heavy boots thudding against the old laminate flooring. Each step sent fear vibrating through her chest. She knew this pattern, this rhythm of rage. It always came in cycles: charm, apology, tension, explosion. But tonight felt different—worse—something in him had snapped. He had snapped. And she had finally realized she might not survive the next cycle.

“Sarah,” Derrick called, his voice deceptively calm—the same fake calm she’d once found soothing, back when she believed he was simply a man with a temper, not a man with a darkness deeper than she could comprehend. “Baby, come out. I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean it.”

She had heard exactly those words dozens of times over their two-year relationship. But never with her arm broken. Never with her vision blurring from a gathering bruise swelling across her right eye. Never with the bone-deep certainty that if she stepped out there again, she might never step anywhere again.

Her breaths came shallow and shaky, each one followed by a jagged spike of pain in her ribs—cracked, she suspected. Her mind buzzed with panic, her pulse roaring in her ears as she stared at her phone screen. The bathroom light flickered overhead; the landlord had been ignoring maintenance requests for months. Even the electricity seemed to tremble with her.

She forced her trembling left thumb to type. Her mother’s contact floated on her screen, blurry as her vision pulsed.

Mom, please help. Derrick broke my arm. I’m scared. He won’t let me leave.

She hit send, a tiny spark of hope that maybe—just maybe—this nightmare could still be escaped.

The bathroom door handle rattled. “Sarah,” Derrick said, the false softness dropping like a mask slipping from an actor’s face. “Don’t make this worse. Open the door. We can talk about this.”

Her phone buzzed. Relief flooded her, her lungs releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she held. She glanced down at the screen.

Who is this? You have the wrong number.

Her stomach plunged to her knees. No. No no no—please no. She blinked hard, but the numbers didn’t rearrange themselves on the screen. In her panic, she’d typed the wrong number. A complete stranger had just received her plea for help.

Her pulse spiked. Tears blurred her vision again. She tried to swallow, but her throat was sandpaper dry. She opened the message thread. She saw the number. Not her mother. Not even close. Her injured eye pulsed with each heartbeat, her fingers shaking uncontrollably.

Her phone buzzed again.

Where are you? Are you safe right now?

Her heart punched against her ribs.

Derrick’s voice thundered through the door. “I’m going to count to three, Sarah. Then I’m breaking this door down.”

One.

Her fingers flew across the cracked screen.

Locked in bathroom. 2247 Riverside Apartments, Unit 15. Please don’t call police. He’ll kill me if cops show up. He’s connected.

Was that true? It was what Derrick always said. That his boss in Denver’s underbelly controlled half the police precinct. That going to law enforcement would only make everything worse.

Two.

Another message arrived.

I’m sending someone. Do NOT open that door. Hold on.

Sarah’s stomach twisted so violently she thought she might throw up. Who had she texted? Who was she talking to? Who had she just given her address to?

Three.

The door exploded inward—shattering, splintering, catapulting onto the cracked bathroom tiles. Derrick burst in, his face mottled red with fury. He looked wild. Dangerous. Desperate.

He filled the doorway, shoulders heaving.

“Who did you text?” he demanded, stalking toward her. When she didn’t answer fast enough, he grabbed her broken arm.

The pain was instant, blinding white, detonating behind her eyes. She screamed—a raw, terrified sound that ripped out of her throat.

“I asked you a question,” he roared.

“W-wrong number,” she sobbed. “I t-texted the wrong number. I swear, Derrick. Please. Please.”

He shoved her away, pacing back and forth, running both hands through his sweat-damp hair. His breathing was panicked—he was scared. That terrified her more than anything. Because if Derrick was scared, something truly dangerous was coming.

“You stupid—” he began, but he didn’t finish.

Outside, she heard something new. Multiple car doors. The slap of boots on concrete. Footsteps. A lot of them. Fast. Coordinated.

Derrick’s head snapped toward the apartment door. “Who did you call?” This time his voice shook.

“I told you,” Sarah whispered. “Wrong number.”

The front door didn’t open—it was demolished. Torn off its hinges with a single blow so powerful the entire frame splintered.

A man stepped inside. A man who moved with the smooth, terrifying confidence of someone who feared absolutely nothing in this world.

“Where is she?” he asked in a cold, low voice wrapped in a faint Eastern European accent. Russian? Ukrainian? Something from that region.

Derrick tried to speak. Tried to posture. Tried to be the tough guy he always presented himself as.

He didn’t get far.

The stranger crossed the room in less than a second. A thud rang out—meaty and final—and Derrick slammed into the wall so hard the cheap drywall cracked behind him.

“I will ask one more time,” the newcomer said, his fist gripping Derrick’s throat effortlessly. “Where. Is. She.”

“Bathroom,” Derrick wheezed.

And then the stranger turned, stepping into the bathroom doorway.

Sarah froze.

He was tall—well over six feet—with broad shoulders filling the frame. His hair was dark, cut neatly. His suit was charcoal gray, tailored with an elegance that didn’t belong anywhere near this rundown Denver complex. His eyes—storm-gray and startlingly sharp—cut over her, cataloging her injuries with unnerving precision. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t pity. It was something colder, deeper. Controlled fury.

“You sent the message,” he said. Not a question.

Sarah nodded, throat too tight for words.

Another man appeared behind him—a younger blond with a military bearing.

“Victor,” the tall man said without looking back, “get her out of here. Take her to Dr. Petro. Full examination. Full documentation.”

Sarah blinked. Dr. Petro? Documentation? Who were these people? What was happening?

Victor moved toward her gently, slowly, like she was a wounded animal.

“Miss, I’m going to help you stand. All right?”

She nodded again, too overwhelmed to speak. Victor’s hands were gentle but strong as he helped her out of the bathroom.

As they passed the bedroom, Sarah saw Derrick pinned against the wall by the tall man’s hand, his feet barely touching the ground.

“Please,” Derrick choked out. “I didn’t know— I swear—I didn’t know who she was.”

“She’s nobody to you,” the stranger said, calm and lethal. “She was never anything to you.”

Sarah didn’t watch what happened next. Victor guided her down the staircase toward a black SUV idling at the curb. Its paint gleamed beneath the Denver streetlight like obsidian. She slid inside, exhausted, in pain, confused beyond reason.

“Who… who was that?” she rasped. “Who are you people?”

Victor glanced at her with a look that was equal parts respect and weariness.

“That,” he said, “was Alexei Vulkoff. And you, Miss Mitchell… have just become the luckiest wrong number in the United States.”

The name meant nothing to her. But from Victor’s tone, she knew it was a name that meant something to everyone else.

The SUV moved smoothly through the Denver streets, gliding past the glow of streetlights and the distant silhouette of the Rocky Mountains. Sarah’s head spun. She wanted to ask questions. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to wake up in a world where her arm wasn’t broken and she hadn’t just witnessed her boyfriend thrown into a wall like a rag doll.

Victor made a call in a language she didn’t recognize—Russian, she suspected. His tone was deferential, clipped.

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into a private medical clinic tucked between a high-end Pilates studio and a boutique coffee shop in one of Denver’s upscale districts. Sarah tried to protest.

“I can’t afford this. I don’t have insurance for—”

“It’s handled,” Victor said simply. “Mr. Vulkoff’s orders.”

Dr. Petro, a silver-haired man with a calm bedside manner, examined her with steady professionalism. He took photos. Documented every injury. Spoke gently as he explained the fractures, the bruising, the concussion. He set her arm in a cast with expert precision.

“You’re very fortunate,” he said. “A few more pounds of pressure here—” he gestured to her ribs “—and things would be far more serious.”

Fortunate. Lucky. Everyone kept saying it.

But Sarah didn’t feel lucky.

She felt broken.

Victor drove her to a towering building in downtown Denver with a doorman who greeted him on a first-name basis. Inside a luxurious apartment on the fifteenth floor—larger than any place she’d lived—Victor pointed out the basics.

“Clothes in the closet. Kitchen stocked. My number is in the phone on the counter. You need anything, call. Day or night.”

“But why?” Sarah whispered, dazed. “Why is he doing all this? He doesn’t know me.”

Victor’s expression softened.

“You texted him for help. He doesn’t ignore such things.”

He left her alone in the massive apartment—with its panoramic views of the Rockies, the Denver skyline shining like scattered stars, and silence so crisp she could hear her own heartbeat.

She should have been terrified.

Instead… she thought of gray eyes. Of a low voice saying Where is she with lethal calm. Of the way he’d looked at her injuries.

And for the first time in two years, she felt safe.

The next morning she woke disoriented but alive. A message buzzed on the temporary phone.

How are you feeling?

Her breath hitched. Unknown number. But she knew.

Who is this?

Alexei. Did you sleep?

The rest of that day—and the days that followed—unfurled into something surreal. She healed. She rested. Victor checked on her daily. Dr. Petro made house calls. Sarah realized she didn’t have to go back to Derrick—didn’t have to go back to that life at all. She quit her job, her voice shaking as she told her manager at a Denver dental office she wouldn’t be returning.

And every day, Alexei texted.

Never long conversations. Just consistent ones.

Good morning. Did you eat? How is the arm? Are you resting? You’re safe. That’s what matters.

On the fourth day, he asked:

May I visit?

She agreed.

The knock came at seven that evening. Sarah opened the door and there he was—standing in the hallway holding takeout from one of Denver’s priciest restaurants. No suit today. Dark slacks. Charcoal sweater. Still devastating.

“You look better,” he said, eyes scanning her face carefully.

“I look like I lost a boxing match.”

He almost smiled. “You look alive.”

They ate. They talked. They shared tiny pieces of their histories: her small-town Colorado childhood, his youth in Moscow before moving to the U.S. with his family. She learned that Derrick had never been as “connected” as he pretended—just a low-level errand boy for a fading crime family trying to hold onto relics of old power.

The relief nearly buckled her.

“You could have gone to the police,” Alexei said softly.

“I… thought I couldn’t.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he answered simply.

“Why?”

His gray eyes locked onto hers.

“Because then I wouldn’t have met you.”

Slowly, steadily, and in ways that surprised her, their connection deepened. He visited often. Brought books. Flowers. Food. He listened—really listened—when she talked. He never pushed for more than she could offer. Never touched her without allowing her to see it coming.

Weeks turned into months. She healed, physically and emotionally.

One evening, six weeks in, through the soft glow of the apartment’s kitchen lights, he asked her to work at a community center he funded in North Denver—an after-school program for kids who needed help.

“You wanted to be a teacher,” he said. “This isn’t exactly the same, but it’s close.”

She blinked. “Why me? You could hire someone with more credentials.”

“Because I trust you,” he said. “And because you’re stronger than you know.”

She took the job.

Life grew steady. Warm. Unexpectedly beautiful.

She saw Alexei differently now—not just as the dangerous man who broke down a door to save her, but as someone who brought her coffee in the mornings, who liked to watch old American black-and-white films, who cradled stray cats on the street despite pretending he didn’t like pets, who sat with her at the penthouse kitchen island while she graded the children’s assignments.

Their relationship changed slowly—then all at once.

One night, in the back of his SUV, she confessed she was falling for him.

“Everything,” he whispered. “You’re everything to me.”

He kissed her—gentle, reverent.

She moved into his penthouse shortly after. It wasn’t a grand decision—no dramatic announcement. Just a natural evolution of two lives intertwining.

Six months later, he proposed on the balcony overlooking the city lights of Denver. It was magical. Soft. Sincere. And she said yes through tears.

They married in a small ceremony at the penthouse. Her mother cried. Victor stood as best man. Dimitri tried not to smile and failed. Even Mikey, who handled Alexei’s legitimate businesses, toasted warmly.

Sarah became Sarah Vulkoff.

And life—her life, the one she’d thought she’d never have—began.

She worked at the community center, loving each chaotic day. She pursued her teaching degree. She learned the rhythms of Alexei’s world, the way power moved quietly through cities, how influence was often traded in whispers rather than threats.

But she also learned the truth of danger.

Which is why, on a Tuesday evening a year later, when a black sedan screeched to a stop outside the community center, her entire body reacted before her brain processed the threat. The kids had just left. She’d been carrying construction paper and supplies to her car.

Three men stepped out. Not Alexei’s men. Not Victor. Not anyone she knew.

“Mrs. Vulkoff,” the leader said. “Please come with us.”

She hit speed dial one. The line rang. She didn’t speak.

She screamed. The men grabbed her. She fought. Hard. She’d trained for this. Elbows. Knees. Kicks. Her heel crushed someone’s foot. Her elbow slammed into someone’s jaw. They subdued her only by pressing something sharp to her neck.

The world went black.

She woke tied to a chair in a dim Denver warehouse. Hands bound. Ankles secured. But her mind was sharp, focused. She waited for the right moment, remembered Alexei’s training, and snapped the zip tie using brute force.

Chaos erupted.

A gun pointed at her.

Then the warehouse door exploded.

Alexei came for her.

He came like a storm, sweeping through the warehouse with Victor and Dimitri at his sides. They subdued the kidnappers with military precision. Within seconds, Sarah was in Alexei’s arms. She could feel his heart pounding. She’d never seen him so scared.

Dr. Petro examined her again. More bruises. More scrapes. Nothing permanent. She sat on the penthouse couch wrapped in a blanket while Alexei paced, fury simmering beneath his skin.

“They said you had gone soft,” Sarah whispered. “They were wrong.”

Alexei knelt before her, cupping her face with trembling hands. “I will never let anything happen to you. Do you hear me? Never.”

She kissed him softly. “I’m not afraid. I chose this life. I chose you.”

Later that night, after Alexei ensured the kidnappers would never threaten her—or anyone—again, he returned home, bruised knuckles and all. Sarah held him close as dawn lit the Denver skyline.

“You’re magnificent,” he whispered into her hair. “You broke free on your own.”

“I learned from the best.”

Life moved forward. She healed again. She lived. She thrived. She continued working with the kids. Alexei continued balancing his world—the legitimate, the gray, the necessary.

On their first anniversary, standing once again on the penthouse balcony under the Colorado stars, Alexei wrapped an arm around her waist.

“I’ve been thinking about the night you texted me,” he murmured.

“What about it?”

“I don’t think it was a wrong number at all. I think it was fate.”

Sarah smiled softly. “I tried to text my mom. But you’re the one who saved me.”

“We saved each other,” he whispered against her temple. “That’s what we do.”

The city glittered below them. A thousand tiny American lights shining like new beginnings.

Sarah Mitchell had texted the wrong number.

And found the right man.

The right life.

The right future.

And in the end, that made all the difference.

The night of their first anniversary bled into morning, the Denver skyline slowly shifting from glittering black to icy blue as dawn crept over the Rockies. Sarah and Alexei stayed on the balcony wrapped in a plush blanket, sharing the kind of soft, quiet conversation that only came after surviving more than once together. The city below was waking up—garbage trucks clattered through alleys, early commuters flicked on headlights, somewhere a siren wailed faintly then faded. Up here, though, they were in their own world. She rested her head against his shoulder, fingers idly tracing the scar along his wrist that he almost never talked about. “You’re going to be late to something,” she murmured eventually, when the sky had gone streaky pink and gold. “A meeting, a call, some important transaction you pretend is just boring paperwork.” He smiled, turning his face into her hair. “I am never late when it matters,” he replied. “This matters most.” “You say that like you don’t run half the city,” she teased. “A quarter,” he corrected dryly. “The other quarter is in denial, the third belongs to the banks, and the last goes to people who think they know what they’re doing.”

She laughed, the sound soft against the morning air. It still amazed her how normal moments like this felt now. A year ago, she had been measuring her life in bruises and apologies. Now she measured days in lesson plans and kid’s drawings, in the taste of Alexei’s coffee, in the way his arms wrapped around her at night like she was the safest thing he owned. “Are you happy?” he asked suddenly, his voice quieter than the wind brushing the balcony glass. Sarah turned to him. His gray eyes, usually so guarded, were completely unshielded now. It still startled her sometimes—the vulnerability he showed only to her. “I’m… more than happy,” she said honestly. “I keep waiting for someone to knock on the door and tell me this was all a clerical error and they’re taking it back.” “Not possible,” Alexei said, the corner of his mouth curving. “There is no returns department for you. I checked.” “Of course you did,” she smiled. “Very thorough.” His thumb brushed along her jaw, as if confirming she was real. “If there’s ever something you want that you don’t have,” he said softly, “you need to tell me. I can’t read minds. Yet.” She hesitated.

There was something. It had been sitting in the back of her thoughts for months now, like a small, bright secret she was afraid to look at too closely. “I want…” She swallowed. “I want to finish my degree. Officially. Not just taking classes forever. I want to stand in an American classroom one day with my own name on the door. Mrs. Vulkoff, third grade. Or fifth. Or whatever they give me.” His expression lit with a warmth that made her chest tight. “Then you’ll have it,” he said. “Whatever you need. Less hours at the center, more help, tutors, a quiet space—” “Alex,” she cut in with a small smile, “I just need time and maybe some extra coffee. You already do more than enough.” “Impossible,” he replied. But he nodded, tucking her closer. They stayed that way until the sun finally climbed over the mountains, turning the glass towers of downtown Denver into pillars of molten gold. Eventually, life intruded. Victor texted about a logistics issue. Dimitri called with a question about a meeting in LoDo. The world wanted its piece of Alexei again. “Go,” Sarah said, nudging him toward the door. “Be terrifying. I’ll be here grading spelling tests when you get back.” He caught her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I’m only terrifying to people who deserve it,” he said. “To you, I am extremely approachable.” “You keep telling yourself that,” she laughed.

He left a few minutes later, suit jacket over his arm, a mask of calm sliding over his features as the elevator doors closed. Sarah watched him go, her heart full, then turned back to their kitchen, where a stack of papers from the community center waited. She graded for a while at the marble island, kids’ crooked handwriting bringing a smile to her face. “Colorful,” one had spelled “colorful” with three l’s and a completely misplaced z. Another had written an essay about wanting to become “a space cowboy who also does math.” These were her favorite parts of the day, the small victories that had nothing to do with power or deals or influence, but everything to do with futures that still had time to be shaped. After an hour, a wave of fatigue hit her so suddenly she had to put the red pen down. She frowned. She’d gone to bed early. She hadn’t done anything particularly strenuous. Yet her limbs felt heavy, like she’d run a marathon in her sleep. “Weird,” she murmured. Her stomach did a small flip. Not an unpleasant one. Just… strange. She poured herself a glass of water, sipping slowly. The sensation passed, leaving only a faint flutter beneath her heart. All day at the center, the odd feeling lingered at the edges of her awareness. While helping a group of second graders cut shapes from construction paper, she had to sit down when the room tilted for a second. Melissa—the other program coordinator—frowned. “You okay, girl? You look a little pale.” “I’m fine,” Sarah said quickly, forcing a smile. “Probably just need more breakfast and less coffee.” “It’s flu season,” Melissa said. “

You should get checked. Denver’s been spinning with something nasty going around. Kids keep coming in with their noses doing Niagara Falls impressions.” Sarah laughed, more to steady herself than anything else. “I’ll be careful.” But driving home that evening, the thought kept returning, tapping more insistently at the back of her mind. By the time she pulled into the underground parking garage beneath their building, her heart was beating faster for a different reason. In their bathroom, she stared at herself in the mirror. Same face. Same light freckles. Same faint scar near her hairline from when she’d fallen off a bike at ten and refused stitches. But something felt different. Like her life had tilted slightly to the left, and she couldn’t see the shift, only feel it. She opened the medicine cabinet. The box sat there, tucked behind bandages and a bottle of aspirin—a leftover from a scare months ago. Sarah picked it up with shaking hands. She told herself it was silly. It was probably nothing. Stress. Bad sleep. Too much on her plate. She followed the instructions anyway. When the minutes were up, she almost couldn’t bring herself to look. She stared at the counter instead, at the neat folded towels, at the bottle of scented soap Alexei pretended he didn’t notice was twice the price of the regular kind. Finally, she exhaled and forced herself to glance down. Two lines. Two clear, undeniable lines. Her brain went blank. For a second, everything in her froze—the past, the future, the entire complicated map of her life. Then her heart roared to life again, beating so loud it seemed to echo in the tiled room. “Oh,” she whispered. Her knees wobbled. She sat down on the closed toilet lid, test still clutched in her hand. “Okay. Okay, okay, okay.”

She was pregnant. Sarah Vulkoff, formerly Sarah Mitchell, formerly the girl who’d thought she might not live to see thirty, was pregnant. The realization came with a mix of emotions so intense she could barely sort them. They stacked on top of each other, tumbling: joy, fear, shock, wonder, panic, more joy, more fear. She thought of Alexei’s hands, the way they cradled fragile things with unexpected gentleness. She thought of his face when he’d asked if she was happy. She thought of the kids at the center calling her Miss S., their laughter echoing down the halls. A soft, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of her. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?” she murmured to the universe. She had no idea how long she sat there, staring at the test like it might suddenly change its mind. The sound of the front door opening startled her. “Sarah?” Alexei called, his voice carrying down the hallway. “I brought dinner. There was a stand outside with some kind of street tacos that Dimitri swears are—” He stopped when he saw her in the doorway of the bathroom, pale and wide-eyed, something small and white clenched in her hand. Immediately his posture changed. The bags dropped, forgotten on the console table. His gaze raked over her face and body, assessing for danger. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, crossing the space between them in three strides. “Are you hurt? Did something—” “No,” she blurted. Her eyes stung suddenly. “I mean—yes. I mean—no, not like that. I’m not hurt. I just… I…” She held the test out, her hand trembling.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t react. His eyes flicked down, registering the object, then back to her face as if confirming he was interpreting this correctly. When the realization sank in, it was like watching a lightning storm behind his eyes. The carefully contained composure he wore in public cracked open, revealing something raw and unguarded. “Sarah,” he whispered. His voice was different. Rougher. “Are you…?” She nodded, tears spilling over now. “I think,” she said shakily. “No, I know. I took it twice. I mean, the second one is still on the counter but the first—” Her words dissolved into a breathless little sob-laugh hybrid. “We’re having a baby,” Alexei said slowly, like he was tasting each word. The corners of his mouth lifted, unsure at first, then more certain, then like the sun breaking out from behind clouds. He reached out, gently taking the test from her hand and setting it aside on the counter as if it were made of glass. Then he cupped her face with both hands, his thumbs brushing away tears. “You’re sure?” he asked, even as hope flared so bright in his eyes it nearly broke her. “I’m… as sure as this can make me,” she said. “We’ll confirm with a real doctor who doesn’t live in a cardboard box, but… yeah.” He laughed, that rare, stunned sound that always made her stomach flutter. “A real doctor,” he repeated. “I happen to know one.” She huffed out a watery laugh. “Dr. Petro’s going to think I’m trying to collect a punch card.” “If he does not have a card system, I will force him to implement one,” Alexei said, utterly serious. Then his composure shattered completely.

He pulled her into his arms, lifting her off her feet. She clung to him, her laugh dissolving into more tears against his shoulder. “You’re happy?” she whispered into his shirt, needing to hear it. “Happy?” he echoed. He set her down just enough to look into her face, his own expression filled with an emotion so intense it made her breath catch. “Sarah, I am… I am beyond anything that word covers. I didn’t think… My world is not…” He shook his head, searching for words. “I did not think this was for me. A wife, a home, a… child.” “It is,” she said firmly. “It is for you. For us.” His hand slid to her lower abdomen, fingers splaying carefully over the flat plane of her stomach, as if he could already feel the life beginning there. “Our child,” he murmured, like it was the most miraculous thing he had ever heard. They stood there for a long time, wrapped together, while the city outside moved on unaware. Later that evening, after they’d called Dr. Petro and confirmed an appointment for the next morning, after he insisted on making tea and forcing her to sit on the couch wrapped in a blanket like she might break, reality began to settle around the edges of the shock. “This changes things,” Alexei said quietly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked out at the Denver skyline, eyes focused on something far away. “I know,” Sarah said. “We’ll need to baby-proof. And probably move the knives to a higher drawer. And maybe teach Dimitri not to say certain words around small ears.” Alexei’s mouth twitched.

“That will be the greatest challenge of all.” But he didn’t smile fully. Something flickered behind his eyes—a shadow she recognized. “You’re worried,” she said softly. “About more than drawer heights.” He turned his head, studying her face for a long moment. “My world is dangerous, Sarah,” he said, his voice low. “I told you that from the beginning. I have enemies. People who resent what I built here in Denver, what my family has become in this country. They have not been able to reach me. They tried with you, once.” His jaw tightened. She could still see the warehouse, the zip ties, the way he’d looked when he came for her. “They failed,” she said calmly. “Because you taught me how to fight. Because you came.” “This is different,” he said, glancing toward her stomach again. “A child is… vulnerable in ways we are not.” She swallowed. The thought scared her, too. But she also knew something else: fear could not be the only thing shaping their lives. “Lots of people raise kids with dangerous jobs,” she said. “Cops in this city go out every day not knowing what they’ll walk into. Soldiers get deployed. Firefighters run toward burning buildings. Their families make it work.” “Those people,” Alexei said, “do not also have corrupt officials and rival families who might see a child as leverage.” She flinched. It was a possibility she hadn’t wanted to name yet. “Do you regret it?” she asked softly. “This. Me. Us. This baby.” “Never,” he said instantly, fierce and certain. “I regret every day that passed before you texted me. I regret every decision that kept me from you. But this?” He reached for her hand. “

This is the first thing that has ever made me want to burn down entire institutions not just for power, but to keep something safe.” She exhaled slowly. “Then we’ll be smart,” she said. “We’ll plan. We’ll add security. I’ll take whatever training you want me to take. We’ll do everything we can.” A slow, reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. “You realize that now that you are carrying my child, I am going to be insufferable,” he said. “I will be worse than Dimitri when his sister was pregnant. He called her six times a day to remind her to drink water.” “You already call me twice a day to remind me to eat,” she countered. “So you’re just leveling up.” “This is your fault,” he said, almost solemn. “You made me care about things beyond the balance sheet.” She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “You’re going to be a good father,” she whispered. He stiffened slightly, as if the words startled him. “You don’t know that,” he murmured. “I do,” she replied. “I’ve seen you with the kids at the center. You sit on those tiny plastic chairs and take their stories about dinosaurs and superheroes seriously. You listen. You show up.” “They are not my children,” he said. “You chose them,” she said. “You funded that center for them. Our baby didn’t ask to be born into this world or into your last name. They’re just… a small surprise package sent by fate. They’ll need you to choose them every day, too. And you will. Because that’s what you do.” He didn’t answer. But his arm tightened around her, and she felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek.

The next morning, Dr. Petro confirmed the pregnancy with a calm smile and professional efficiency, offering congratulations in his soft Eastern European accent. Sarah watched the flickering gray shape on the ultrasound screen—too small to make sense of yet, just a cluster of possibility—and felt her own sense of reality shift again. Alexei stood beside her, his hand locked around hers, eyes fixed on the monitor like it contained the secrets of the universe. “That’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Petro said, pointing to a small pulsing rhythm. “It’s… fast,” Sarah breathed. “Normal for this stage,” the doctor said. “Healthy.” Alexei didn’t say anything. But later, in the car, Sarah realized his hand shook slightly when he started the engine. “We’re really doing this,” she said, watching the Denver streets glide past. “There is no turning back now,” he agreed. “Wouldn’t want to,” she said. His hand reached blindly for hers, finding it. “Neither would I,” he replied. Word of the pregnancy spread quickly through Alexei’s inner circle. Victor appeared at their door that evening with an enormous bouquet of flowers and a box of herbal tea “for circulation.” “You looked it up,” Sarah said, amused. Victor, normally so composed, flushed. “I asked my wife,” he admitted. “Congratulations,” he added gruffly. “The city does not know it yet, but this is a very fortunate day for Denver.” “That seems like a lot of pressure to put on a jelly-bean-sized person,” Sarah said. Dimitri’s reaction was, predictably, less restrained. He whooped loudly enough to startle the doorman, then tried to crush Alexei in a hug until Alex threatened to reassign him to inventory in a storage unit in Commerce City for a month. “You?” Dimitri crowed. “Papa Dragon? I never thought I’d see the day.

We have to raise security. Buy more cameras. Get those fancy American baby monitors with like sixteen screens.” “We are not installing a command center in the nursery,” Sarah said firmly. “We are absolutely installing a command center in the nursery,” Alexei said at the same time. They both paused. Looked at each other. Then laughed. “Compromise,” Sarah said. “We can put a camera in there. One. Not sixteen.” “Two,” Alexei bargained. “We’re not negotiating with a real estate developer,” she said. “This is a baby, not a shopping mall.” “Three is my final offer,” he replied. “You realize they’re not going to tunnel out,” she deadpanned. “They’re not a jewel thief.” “You do not know that,” he said. “They will be half you, half me. Anything is possible.” The months that followed had a rhythm all their own. Morning sickness hit Sarah harder than she’d expected, leaving her gripping the marble counter more than once while Alexei hovered like a storm cloud, ready to call an ambulance for what Dr. Petro insisted was entirely normal. “Plenty of women go through this,” the doctor said. “You do not need to buy an entire hospital, Alexei.” “I could,” Alexei muttered under his breath. “I know what you’re thinking,” Sarah said, pale but amused. “Don’t buy a hospital.” “Why not?” he asked. “The American healthcare system seems… fragile.” “Because then every time I sneeze, you’ll try to wheel an MRI machine into the bedroom,” she replied. “We’re not turning our place into Denver General.” Despite the nausea, the fatigue, the strange new aches, Sarah had never felt more certain about anything. Her students at the community center noticed the changes gradually—her hand drifting to her stomach unconsciously, the way she sometimes sat more often during activities. “Miss S., are you having a baby?” one of them blurted out one afternoon as she tried to corral them into quiet reading time. Sarah blinked. She and Alexei had agreed to keep it relatively private until the second trimester was solid, but kids noticed everything. “Why do you ask?” she said, stalling. “My mom walked like that when my little brother was inside,” the girl said, demonstrating a slight hand-at-the-back tilt that made Sarah snort.

“And you look tired but also not sad-tired. You look happy-tired.” Sarah’s heart did a soft little somersault. “You are very observant,” she said. “And yes. There is a baby. But it’s still early, okay? So we’re going to be gentle with Miss S. No tackles. No full speed hugs.” The kids, naturally, took this as a challenge to perfect slow-motion hugs, which resulted in exaggerated, comic approaches that made her laugh so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes. News traveled beyond their small orbit too. In the quiet corners of Denver’s underbelly, rumors began to circulate: the Dragon’s wife was expecting. Some people took it as a sign of vulnerability. Others as a sign that Alexei’s roots in the city were sinking even deeper. In an office building downtown, in the Denver field office of a federal agency, a different conversation was happening. “Vulkoff’s wife is pregnant,” one agent said, sliding a file across a conference table. “Could be a pressure point.” “Could also blow up in our faces,” another replied, shaking his head. “You push the wrong way on something like that, you don’t get cooperation. You get a war.” “We’ve been trying to nail him for years,” the first agent said. “Every time we think we have a line on his operations, they come up clean. He hides behind his legit businesses, the community center, donations to city projects. He looks like a public-minded businessman with some colorful rumors attached.” “Colorful rumors,” the second snorted. “That’s one way to describe racketeering.” Their supervisor, a woman with sharp eyes and a Colorado State mug, tapped her pen against the tabletop. “We treat this like any other development,” she said. “We monitor. We collect data. We do not touch the family. That’s not how we operate. Understood?” The agents nodded, the wheels of the machine turning anyway. Sarah remained unaware of the conversations her existence sparked among people who only knew Alexei as a name in their files.

Her world was defined instead by smaller things: the first flutter of movement inside her at sixteen weeks that made her gasp in the grocery store aisle between cereal and granola bars; the way Alexei’s entire body froze when she grabbed his hand and pressed it to her stomach. “Did you feel that?” she breathed. His eyes went wide. The baby fluttered again—light, like a goldfish flicking in a bowl. “Yes,” he said, voice strangely hushed. “That’s them saying hi,” she said, smiling. “Hello, little one,” he murmured, his hand splayed protectively. Another time, she found him late at night in the nursery they were slowly assembling, standing by the window, staring out at the city lights. The walls were painted a soft gray. A white crib sat assembled beneath a mobile of stars. On the floor lay a plush rug she’d picked because it felt like walking on clouds. “You’re going to wear a groove in the hardwood if you pace any more,” she said gently from the doorway. He startled, then relaxed. “I did not hear you,” he admitted. “You were somewhere very far away,” she said, stepping into the room. “Ukraine? Moscow? New York? 1998?” “Twenty years in the future,” he said. “Trying to picture what they will become.” “We don’t even know if they’re a ‘he’ or a ‘she’ yet,” Sarah said, touching his arm. “We’ll find out soon enough.” “In my head, they become both and neither,” he said. “A little one running through this apartment, demanding pancakes at six a.m. A teenager slamming doors. A grown person walking out of this city to see other parts of this country, maybe the world.”

He looked at her. “I’m trying to imagine letting them go.” Her throat tightened. “We’ve got at least eighteen years before we worry about college applications,” she said. “For now, let’s figure out how to assemble that changing table without swearing in three languages.” His mouth finally curved. “That, my love, may be beyond even my considerable skills.” Pregnancy wasn’t entirely magic. There were swollen ankles, nights when she couldn’t find a comfortable position, days when the world smelled overwhelmingly like garlic for no logical reason. There were moments when her fear crept in through the cracks: what if something went wrong? What if her body didn’t cooperate? What if her past trauma, her old scars, somehow reached into this new chapter? Alexei’s fears were different but just as sharp. What if his enemies saw an opportunity? What if his own past—things he’d done, choices he’d made—came calling like a debt collector at the worst possible time? Those fears got a little louder one crisp October morning, when Sarah was about six months along. They were sitting at the kitchen island, Sarah working through a stack of lesson plans, Alexei scrolling through emails on his tablet, when Victor walked in with a look that made every hair on the back of Alexei’s neck stand up. “We have a problem,” Victor said. Alexei set the tablet down, his body going still. “What kind of problem?” Victor glanced at Sarah, then back to Alexei. “The kind we don’t talk about in front of your wife.” “Too bad,” Sarah said calmly before Alexei could speak. “She’s sitting right here.” “Sarah,” Alexei said quietly. “Maybe—” “I’m carrying your child,” she reminded him. “If whatever this is could affect us, I want to know.” Victor exhaled, then nodded. “We picked up chatter,” he said. “Some of the old guard from the Russo side—the ones who didn’t get the message when Marco backed down—have been talking to an out-of-town group. Chicago, maybe. Hard to pin down yet. They think you’re distracted. Soft. They’re calling the baby your ‘weak spot.’” Alexei’s face went blank. Not expressionless—it was the mask he put on when he heard something that hit too close. “Names?” he asked. “A few,” Victor said. “Nothing concrete yet.

But they’re testing the waters. Asking questions about the community center schedule. Security patterns around the penthouse. They’re stupid enough to talk about this in places we can listen, which means they’re stupid enough to try something.” The world took on a strange clarity for Sarah. The words “weak spot” lodged somewhere deep in her chest. She placed a hand instinctively over her stomach. “They’re not touching the center,” she said, her voice steady despite the cold that washed through her veins. “They’re not coming near those kids.” Alexei’s gaze snapped to her. There it was again—the flash of pride at her fierceness, tangled with his protective instinct. “They won’t,” he said. “I’ll handle it.” “No more diplomacy?” Victor asked quietly. Something dark flickered in Alexei’s eyes. “No more diplomacy,” he said. “We tried that route. They saw it as weakness.” He stood, rolling his shoulders like a fighter loosening up before stepping into a ring. “Increase security around the center and the building. Quietly. I want eyes on every entrance, cameras checked twice a day, no exceptions. Anyone loitering, anyone watching too closely, we find out who they are and who they work for. We move first.” Victor nodded and left as quickly as he had come. Silence settled over the kitchen. Sarah stared at her hands for a long moment, then looked up. “This is because of me,” she said softly. “Because of the baby.” “No,” Alexei said, instantly. “This is because they are fools and they mistake compassion for weakness. They see that I care about something and they think it gives them leverage. That is not your fault. It is theirs.” “But it changes things,” she pressed. “It changes how you handle them.” “Yes,” he said. “It makes me less patient.” She swallowed. “

You’re going to… do something, aren’t you?” “I am going to protect what is mine,” he said. “You. Our child. Those kids at the center you love. This city I’ve put too much work into to let a few relics from the past turn it into a battleground.” She hesitated, the old moral lines she’d been raised with brushing against the new reality she’d chosen. “I don’t want to know details,” she said quietly. “But I need to know you’ll come back to me.” He walked around the island and took her face in his hands. “Always,” he said. “I will always come back to you.” He left an hour later, the air in the penthouse charged with a tension that made Sarah’s skin prickle. Victor stayed just outside, posted near the door like a silent sentinel. Sarah tried to distract herself with lesson plan revisions, but the words blurred on the page. Eventually, she gave up, wandering into the nursery and sinking onto the rocking chair. She rested a hand on her stomach. “Hey, little one,” she murmured. “Your father is out being… intense.” The baby shifted inside her, a little roll that made her inhale sharply. “Yeah,” she whispered. “That sounds about right.” Dusk settled over Denver. Streetlights flicked on, turning downtown into a sea of golden dots. The sky went indigo. The city hummed. And still Alexei didn’t return. She knew better than to call. His world didn’t allow distractions when he was in motion. But when the clock edged past midnight, the worry began to claw inside her chest. By one a.m., she was pacing. By two, she was on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, scanning the street below like she could will the SUV into existence. Victor appeared at the balcony door. “He’ll be back soon,” he said quietly. “You know how he gets when he’s… sending messages.” “I know,” she said. “It’s the ‘soon’ part I’m having trouble with.” Victor studied her for a moment, something like sympathy in his eyes. “When my wife was pregnant with our first, I spent an entire night sitting in a car outside the hospital while she was in labor, convinced I’d get a call saying something had gone wrong before I even walked in. Fear does strange things.” “Does it ever stop?” she asked. He considered the question. “It changes shape,” he said. “But you learn to live with it.”

She nodded slowly. “He’s not going to tell me what he did tonight, is he?” she asked. “No,” Victor said. “And you don’t want him to.” The SUV pulled up at three a.m. exactly, sliding into the private garage like a shadow. Alexei stepped out, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, a smear of something dark on his cuff that could have been oil or something else. His jaw was clenched, his eyes still humming with the cold energy he carried when he’d been in that other part of his life. Sarah waited inside the doorway, her feet bare on the warm hardwood. He paused when he saw her, something in his posture softening immediately. “You should be sleeping,” he said, closing the distance between them. “You should have been home hours ago,” she countered. “There were… complications,” he said. “It is handled now.” “Handled,” she repeated. “You love that word.” “It is a good word,” he said. “It does not frighten you.” “Tonight, everything frightens me,” she said honestly. “Not because of what you do. Because I realized something.” He stilled. “What?” She took his hand and placed it on her stomach, where the baby gave a small, indignant kick, as if annoyed to be used as a demonstration. “This little person ties us together in ways nothing else could,” she said. “If something happens to you out there, it’s not just me who loses you. It’s them. If something happens to me, it’s not just you left behind. It’s them. We’re not just a couple anymore. We’re…” Her throat closed around the word. “We’re a family,” he finished softly. “Yes,” she whispered. “

And that means every risk you take out there, every enemy you decide to… handle… ripples in here.” She gestured around the apartment. “Into this nursery. Into their future.” He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment. “I know,” he said quietly. “I felt it every time I walked into a room tonight. I looked at men I have known for years and I thought, If you touch what is mine, I will not stop until there is nothing left of you. It is… different now.” “Different how?” she asked. “Before, when I took risks, I thought only of myself, my crew, my family name,” he said. “If I failed, I paid the price. Now…” He opened his eyes again and looked at her. “Now failure is not an option. Not because of pride. Because of you. Because of them.” Sarah held his gaze. “Then promise me,” she said softly. “Promise me you’ll start thinking long-term. Not just about the next deal, the next problem, the next threat. Think about ten years from now. Twenty. Think about whether what you’re doing today builds a life they can be proud of or one they have to escape.” A faint, sad smile touched his lips. “I have spent most of my life building something from the shadows,” he said. “You want me to step into the light.” “I want you to build us something that doesn’t crumble every time someone new decides they want a piece,” she said. “Call it… diversification. You like that word.” He huffed out a laugh. “You are using my own vocabulary against me,” he said. “That is unfair.” “Effective, though,” she said. “You built legitimate businesses already. The real estate. The construction.

The tech investments. The community center. Lean on those more. Let the other stuff fade. Make it harder for people to say you’re just a man in the shadows.” He looked at her for a long time, the internal calculations almost visible in his eyes. Finally, he nodded once. “After the baby is born,” he said slowly, “I will start transitioning. More of my time in the open. Less in the dark. I cannot erase what I’ve done. But I can shift the balance.” “Start now,” she said. “Even just a little. Show me you mean it.” He considered that, then nodded again. “Tomorrow, I’ll call Mikey,” he said. “We’ll begin moving some of the more… questionable revenue streams into cleaner fronts or shutting them down entirely. It won’t be quick. It won’t be easy. And it will make some people angry.” “Let them be angry,” she said. “You told me once that real power isn’t loud. It’s quiet. It’s steady. It doesn’t need to prove itself all the time. This is your chance to prove it.” He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You could have married a dentist,” he said. “Or a teacher. Or a man who does something with spreadsheets for an insurance firm in Aurora.” “I hate spreadsheets,” she said. “And I think the universe knew exactly what it was doing when I texted that wrong number.” “So do I,” he murmured. He kissed her then, slow and lingering, one hand resting on her belly, the other curled around the back of her neck. The baby kicked again, like a small, impatient reminder that they were a part of this conversation, too. The weeks that followed were filled with subtle shifts. On the surface, life went on much as before. Sarah worked at the center, studied for her classes at night, and attended prenatal appointments. Alexei still had meetings, still took calls at odd hours, still had a security detail that could probably have stopped a small invasion. But underneath, the currents were changing. She overheard fragments of conversations—the word “exit strategy” from Mikey, the phrase “legitimacy push” from Dimitri.

There were more charity events, more public-facing projects. Alexei appeared in the Denver Post’s business section twice in a month, not for anything sensational, but for donating to a new literacy program and sponsoring a scholarship fund at a local university. “You’re becoming respectable,” she teased, waving the newspaper at him one morning over breakfast. “Careful, they might invite you to Rotary lunches.” “If I start wearing golf shirts and talking about my handicap, please have me evaluated,” he replied dryly. “I don’t know, I might find it charming,” she said. “Do not threaten me,” he said, but his eyes were warm. Not everyone was thrilled with the shift. Some of Alexei’s old contacts faded away, drifting toward other figures in the shadows who were more interested in certain kinds of operations. A few made noises, threatening to expose things that had been carefully buried. That was when the Denver field office’s interest in him ticked up again. “Vulkoff’s pulling back from some of his old patterns,” one agent reported, pointing to timelines on a whiteboard. “Revenue from some of his suspected fronts is dipping. Legit businesses are climbing. He’s leaning into the community guy image.” “You think he’s going clean?” another asked skeptically. “Men like that don’t usually retire. They either get taken out or they pivot.” Their supervisor sipped her coffee. “Pivoting is still useful,” she said. “You reduce harm without a firefight. Maybe he wants his kid to grow up without seeing him in a mugshot.” “Maybe he just wants to make it harder for us to pin anything on him,” the first agent said. “Either way,” their boss replied, “we watch. We document. We wait. If he becomes just another wealthy Denver businessman with some vague rumors attached, I’m not losing sleep over it.

We have bigger problems than ghosts.” Sarah knew none of this in detail. What she knew was that Alexei came home a bit earlier most nights, that he missed fewer dinners, that he spent more time talking about construction permits and zoning laws and school board politics than security shipments. What she knew was that when she woke up in the middle of the night with a cramp and a spike of fear that something was wrong, he was there beside her, not across the city in a warehouse. It happened on a snowy December night, the kind where Denver’s streets looked like they’d been dusted in powdered sugar. The penthouse windows were fogged slightly from the heat inside, the city below a glittering reflection in the glass. Sarah woke to a sharp pain low in her abdomen and a sense of wrongness that made her heart slam. She gasped, hand flying to her stomach. The baby responded with a roll, then settled. Another cramp followed, stronger. “Alex,” she whispered, then louder when he didn’t stir. “Alex.” He was awake instantly, years of training snapping him to alertness. “What is it?” he asked, already half sitting up. “Something’s wrong,” she managed. “It… hurts. It’s too early.” His face went white. “How early?” he asked, even as he moved, grabbing sweatpants, his phone. “Three weeks,” she said, trying to breathe around the pain. He was on the phone before she finished, voice clipped and urgent as he spoke to Dr. Petro. Within minutes, they were in the SUV, Victor driving like the roads were clear in broad daylight instead of slick with snow and black ice. The city blurred past—streetlights and traffic signals and the glowing red cross of the hospital sign. In the back seat, Alexei held her hand so tightly his knuckles went white. “Breathe, Sarah,” he said, his own voice shaking slightly. “I am right here. We are almost there.” “What if…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. He squeezed her hand even tighter. “Do not finish that,” he said fiercely. “We are not losing them. Do you hear me? We are not.” Dr. Petro met them at the hospital entrance, directing them to a quiet wing away from the chaos of the emergency room. Nurses moved around Sarah with efficient calm, hooking up monitors, taking readings. The baby’s heartbeat echoed in the room, fast and insistent. Strong. “The heartbeat is good,” Dr. Petro said, his eyes on the screen. “That is the most important thing right now.” “

What’s happening?” Sarah asked, fighting tears. “Some women experience this. Preterm contractions. Sometimes the body gets… overenthusiastic,” he said. “We can often manage it with medication and rest. We’ll monitor you both closely.” Alexei stood at the side of the bed, one hand on her shoulder, the other braced on the rail like it was the only thing keeping him from coming apart. “Tell me what you need,” he said to the doctor. “Equipment, specialists, a different hospital—” “We have everything we need,” Dr. Petro interrupted gently. “What Mrs. Vulkoff needs is calm, rest, and as little stress as possible.” He glanced between them. “That includes minimizing… external complications.” It took Sarah a second to realize that by “external complications,” he meant everything that came with Alexei’s name. Security. Enemies. Investigations. All of it. “I can do that,” Alexei said, and there was something like a vow in his voice. “I will do whatever it takes.” The next forty-eight hours were a blur of monitors, medication, and whispered prayers. Sarah lay in the hospital bed, watching the lines on the screen that represented her contractions, watching them slowly space out and weaken. Alexei refused to leave. When the nurse gently suggested that maybe he should go home and rest, he looked at her like she’d suggested he move to another state. “I will rest when they are both safe,” he said simply. He slept in the chair beside her bed in short, restless bursts, waking at every beeping sound. He took calls in the hallway, voice low and precise, instructing his people to handle things without him, to keep trouble away from the hospital. On the second night, when the contractions had slowed and the medication seemed to be doing its job, Sarah woke to find him sitting by the window, his silhouette outlined by the orange glow of a Denver streetlight. He had his head in his hands. She’d never seen him look so tired. “Hey,” she said softly. He lifted his head, forcing a small smile. “I didn’t want to wake you,” he said. “

You need the rest.” “So do you,” she replied. “Come here.” He stood and crossed to her, letting her take his hand. “Are you scared?” she asked quietly. “Terrified,” he admitted. The honesty in his voice shook her more than any bravado could have. “I have gone into rooms where everyone wanted me dead, and I was less afraid than I am now, watching numbers on a screen.” “Welcome to parenthood,” she said, her own voice trembling. “It’s all numbers on screens and worrying if they ate enough vegetables and whether they’re happy.” “I am not equipped for this,” he said. “None of us are,” she replied. “We just… figure it out as we go.” He looked at her for a long moment, then leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers. “I am trying, Sarah,” he whispered. “I am trying to be the man you and this child deserve. Every day, I am trying.” “You already are,” she said. “Even when you don’t feel like it.” The crisis passed. The medication worked. The contractions stopped. After three days, the doctors agreed she could go home, on the strict condition of modified bed rest. “No heavy lifting,” Dr. Petro said firmly. “No stress. No long days on your feet at the center. You must think of yourself as an extremely valuable piece of art that needs careful handling.” “I’m not a Ming vase,” she protested. “For now, you are,” he replied dryly. “Treat yourself accordingly.” “You heard the man,” Alexei said. “You are now officially fragile.” “I am officially pregnant,” she corrected. “And you are officially impossible.” But she followed the instructions. She moved more slowly. She let others carry things.

She accepted help, even when five years ago she would have spat at the idea. The baby, who had tried to arrive too early, settled again, growing, kicking, making their presence known with determined wiggles that made her laugh out loud sometimes. Winter in Denver deepened, the city shimmering under layers of snow and holiday lights. The penthouse felt like a warm cocoon, insulated from the worst of the cold. Within its walls, a man who had once prided himself on being untouchable stood nightly by a crib that was still empty, his hand resting lightly on the rail, whispering stories in a low voice about a future he’d never dared dream of. And Sarah, lying in their bed with one hand over her belly and the other reaching out to him across the sheets, knew with a certainty that went deeper than fear that whatever came next—whatever battles, compromises, or transformations waited for them—this was the life she wanted. Not a perfect one. Not a safe one in the traditional suburban sense. But a life where a wrong number on a battered phone in a cheap apartment had become a family in a city that now felt undeniably, irrevocably like home.