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"Dad changed?" I asked, stunned.

"Yes," she said firmly. "Men need a reason sometimes, something big enough to make them see what really matters. This baby might be that reason for Gennady—a chance for him to rethink himself, your relationship."

"But what if he doesn't want to?" My voice broke. "What if the baby and I don't mean enough to him?"

"Then you'll have your answer," she said, gentle but brutal. "But you can't keep this secret forever, Cassie. It's not good for you or the baby. You need to let go of the stress."

I closed my eyes, exhaustion crashing over me. "I know, Mom. I just need time… some courage to face what might happen."

"Take your time, but remember," she said, her voice full of unconditional love, "whatever you decide, I'm your safe place. If you need to come home, if you need me there, just say the word. I'll be on the first flight to you."

"Thank you, Mom," I choked out, warmth flooding through the fear. "I love you."

"I love you, too, baby. More than you can ever know."

The call ended, and the world went quiet again. I sat by the window, my hand resting on my stomach, feeling the faint presence of the life growing inside me—Gennady's and mine.

The realization was overwhelming. Fear of the unknown, of the dangers outside, clung to me. But there was also a strange, powerful warmth, a sense of belonging that anchored me. This child needed a father. And I needed to know if Gennady could change for us—not to quit his world overnight, but to loosen that chokehold of control that was suffocating me.

I took a deep breath, the morning air laced with the estate's floral sweetness. It filled my lungs, but my chest felt heavy, like a boulder was crushing me. His words from last night—"Maybe you don't have to pretend to love me anymore"—played on a loop, each replay squeezing my heart tighter. His pain, his despair, they were real. He thought I didn't love him anymore, thought I was punishing him with coldness.

God, if he only knew how much I love him.

If I kept this up, kept hiding, our relationship would die in this misunderstanding. I'd watch the man I love slip away, consumed by pain, until there was nothing left of us.

No more waiting. For the baby, for our love, I had to act.

I stood, dizziness hitting me, but I steadied myself and headed to the closet, my hands shaking. This choice felt like asword hanging over me—ready to carve a path to something new or cut everything we had to pieces.

My fingers brushed over the clothes, stopping at the pale blue dress. Gennady once said it made me look like an angel. Maybe that soft blue could spark a memory of the woman who first stole his heart, remind him I wasn't just his possession but the woman he fell for.

In front of the mirror, I studied myself. Pale, with dark circles under my eyes, but in those eyes—washed clear by tears—I saw a flicker of something I hadn't in a while. Hope. Determination. The courage of a woman about to become a mother.

I touched my stomach, feeling the faint pulse of life. Deep breath. The air was crisp, sweet with flowers, cool with the dawn. My blood surged, my heart pounded. I wasn't the scared woman curled by the window anymore. I was a mother-to-be, ready to face the storm for love, for freedom, for the life inside me.

It was time.

No more running, no more hiding. No more letting fear and doubt control my fate.

I opened the door, heart pounding with nerves and hope, ready to find Gennady and tell him everything.

But when I reached the bottom of the stairs, standing at the living room doorway, my world froze.

Gennady sat on the sofa—the one where we'd shared countless moments of closeness. But he wasn't alone. A blonde woman was beside him, not across the room, not at a polite distance, but so close her knee nearly brushed his leg.

It was her. The woman from the anonymous photos. I'd never forget that face.

Her hand rested on his forearm, her golden hair cascading like a waterfall, her blood-red silk top glinting in the morning light. She looked radiant, like a perfect doll.

And Gennady wasn't pushing her away.

My blood turned to ice.

For a moment, time stopped. I stood on the last step, gripping the banister, my breath caught in my throat.

Then she saw me.

Her lips curved into a slow, predatory smile—not friendly, but the kind a cat gives a canary. Her eyes gleamed with triumph, a silent taunt: I knew you'd see this.