Page 86 of 10 Days to Surrender

I want them formore.

I wake to sunlight warming my face and the distant sound of birds. The others must have already gone inside. Their loungers are empty, pillows and blankets abandoned. Only Sasha’s thick blanket remains, still wrapped around me like an embrace.

Something crinkles when I shift. A piece of paper, folded beside my pillow. When I open it, my breath catches.

The paper contains a rough sketch of stars connected by careful lines. It’s not a real constellation—I recognize enough from Jasmine’s childhood lessons to know that. Instead, it forms the shape of two tiny figures nestled together, like the ultrasound image taped to my mirror. Beneath it, in Sasha’s precise handwriting:

For our children.

I don’t need a North Star to tell me what’s become blindingly obvious now: We’re well past the point of no feelings.

There’s no going back from here.

33

ARIEL

The birthing center looks nothing like I imagined. No sterile white walls or harsh fluorescent lights—just warm terracotta and climbing vines, like someone’s nonna decided to turn her villa into a medical facility.

Which, according to the plaque by the door, is exactly what happened.

Sasha’s hand rests at the small of my back as we follow the receptionist down a sunlit hallway. The contrast between this and our last Lamaze “class” couldn’t be more stark. This place is conspicuously absent of Gina in a ridiculous wig pretending to be a New Age guru. There will be no exaggerated breathing exercises or jokes about chakra alignment.

Today feels like serious business.

The woman up front looks the part, too. She’s short and fierce, with steel-gray hair twisted into a severe bun. Her name tag readsSignora Rossiin precise handwriting. “Benvenuti!”she cries as we approach. “You are the Ozerovs?”

I hesitate, but Sasha nods for both of us.

Signora Rossi beams. “Perfetto!Come, come.” She ushers us into a room filled with birth balls and yoga mats. “First baby,si?”

“First two, actually,” I say, patting my belly. “Twins.”

Her eyes light up. “Gemelli!Double blessing. Then we have much to cover.”

The birthing class room fills up with other couples, all of them looking as apprehensive as I feel. The vinyl mat sticks to my thighs as Sasha and I lower ourselves between a pair of German tourists and a local couple holding hands. I’m already bracing myself for Sasha’s inevitable complaints about this whole thing being a waste of time.

But they never come.

Instead, he’s pulling out a small notebook, scribbling notes in his precise handwriting as Signora Rossi begins explaining different labor positions. When she demonstrates a particular breathing pattern, he actually raises his hand to ask a question about the timing.

His focus terrifies me more than any intentionally scary thing he’s ever done. This is the same intensity he uses for interrogations, for dismantling rivals. Now, it’s being directed at… memorizing pelvic tilt for optimal dilation?

I stare at him, wondering if he’s been replaced by some kind of parallel universe version of himself. This is nothing like the last time we did this. He looks… invested. Determined.

He looks like he fuckingcares.

Signora Rossi begins explaining perineal massage. Sasha’s brow furrows as he raises his hand and asks, “How often should we practice this?”

I immediately choke on my water. “You cannot be serious.”

But he doesn’t blink or seem to notice that it’s an absurd question. His hand does reach out to find my thigh and rest there. Gentle. Reassuring. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.

So what do I do?

I go along with it, duh. What else can I do besides that?

Even as things get more intense, all I can do is sit back and enjoy the ride. We’re supposed to be partners in mutual destruction, not… this. His calloused palm spans the stretch marks he kissed raw last night. He mouthsVydokhagainst my temple during the exhale drills—breathe out—like it’s a prayer.

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