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While I can’t forget her past or the mistakes she made, she remains very important to me. We now meet weekly at our favorite little Lebanese restaurant in the city to catch up and talk about her life and mine. I learned that she used to be a ballerina, and that dancing was her way of finding freedom. She even started her own small dance studio, which already has twenty clients. I’m genuinely thrilled for her.
After many discussions, Mikhaïl and I decided to find her a place in the city for the weekdays. Then, on weekends, we escape to the manor—a peaceful retreat from the city's craziness—where we can unwind and enjoy some quality time together.
“Wow, Dasha really outdid herself,” I said, looking at the spread.
Mikhaïl nodded, taking a big bite of a sandwich. “I think she’s secretly trying to fatten you up.”
I sipped the lemonade and grinned. “Well, I’m already eating for two anyway.”
“As you should,” he said, placing a hand on my tummy and gently rubbing its small roundness. “You better eat everything. I want our son to be strong enough to protect you when I’m away.”
I chuckled, popping a piece of gouda cheese into my mouth. “What if it’s a girl?”
His smile widened. “Then no worries, Papa will be here for his girls.”
We continued our picnic in Central Park, enjoying the delicious spread that Dasha had prepared for us. In the crisp early October air, Mikhaïl noticed a slight chill and gently draped a light plaid over my shoulders to keep me warm.
I found out I was pregnant last month in Positano.
After two weeks of feeling strange and dizzy, Mikhaïl sat me down and suggested I take a test, just in case.
It turned out I was three weeks pregnant.
I sat on the cool tiles of the villa, hands shaking, staring into oblivion.
I was pregnant.
At 25, it felt like something inside me shifted that night.
A sob escaped my lips, and I called for my husband.
He rushed over, thinking I was hurt.
When I showed him the positive test, he dropped to his knees and hugged my belly so tightly I nearly lost my breath.
“I can’t believe it,” he said, his voice choked with emotion.
“Are you happy?” I asked tentatively, afraid he might be disappointed or not ready for a baby so soon.
He stood up, grabbed my face, and kissed me deeply. “Happy? Sofiya, I’ve never been happier! You’re incredible. I’m the luckiest bastard on this planet.”
Now it’s been a month of nightly foot massages and sweet little treats before bed, courtesy of my amazing husband.
These were just some of the perks of being married to Mikhaïl Volkov.
“Alexsei texted me this morning. He wants us to have dinner at his place,” Mikhaïl said, nibbling on a fry. “I think his ex-wife will be there too.”
Back when I lived in New York and had weekly dinners with Alexsei, he rarely opened up about his personal life.
But one evening, after a few whiskeys, he confided that his ex-wife Caia now lived in New York as well.
He described her as the love of his life, yet something happened between them that led to her seeking a divorce and leaving Russia for good.
His voice carried a mix of love and sorrow whenever he spoke of her, leaving me wishing she would give him a second chance, despite whatever had transpired between them.
A few days ago, Mikhaïl told me that Alexsei had learned Caia was in danger. He invited her to stay at his place until he could figure out who was threatening her.
I couldn’t help but wonder if their newfound living arrangement would lead to something more…
