Page 142 of Porcelain Lies

“Present but manageable. The expense will be high; around the ten million mark. But the AI modeling suggests—”

“Cost is no object,” I cut him off. “Whatever he needs.”

“Of course.” There’s a smile in his voice. “I’ll have the full protocol ready for your review by morning.”

I end the call, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The rage at Whitmore and Maranzano recedes, replaced by possibilities I’d never dared consider. Bobik standing. Taking steps. The image fills my chest with unfamiliar warmth.

I grab my phone again, fingers already typing the transfer authorization to Dr. Malhotra’s research facility. Ten milliondollars. The amount barely registers — I’d pay ten times that to see my son walk.

My hands shake slightly as I complete the transaction. The screen blurs, and I blink hard, surprised to find moisture in my eyes.

Fuck.

I haven’t cried since… since my mother disappeared.

The memory of Bobik’s face during our badminton game fills my mind — his pure joy at simply being outside, playing like any normal child. And now… now he might actually walk.

Bozhe moy.

I swallow down the tightness in my throat. All these years of protecting him, hiding him away. Every decision driven by the need to keep him safe from those who would see him as weak. But he’s never been weak. Never.

The transfer confirmation pings.

Done.

I stare at the zeros, remembering the day the doctors first told me about his injury. The way Olga wept while I stood there, frozen, unable to process that my son would never walk. The rage that followed, the hunt for the doctor who fled.

But now…

“Blyad.” My voice comes out rough. I curl my hands into fists, fighting for control. This isn’t like me. Emotions are weakness. Emotions are what get you killed in this business.

Yet all I can think about is Bobik taking his first steps.

But if it doesn’t work?

I need to focus. The treatment isn’t guaranteed. There are risks. But for the first time in ten years, there’s real hope.

I pour another whiskey. My mind keeps cycling between Dr. Malhotra’s words and thoughts of my unborn child. Two children. One fighting to walk, one not yet breathing air.

The city lights blur as I stare out of the window. Will this child be healthy? Will he run and play while his brother watches from his wheelchair? Or will the treatment work, letting them chase each other through the gardens?

“Pizdets.” I haven’t allowed myself to imagine Bobik walking in years. The hope feels dangerous, like a weapon that could tear me apart if I let it.

My hand drifts to my phone, my thumb suddenly hovering over the surveillance app.

Stella.

She sleeps peacefully in her wing, one hand curved protectively over her stomach. Our child grows there, cell by cell, spine forming with terrifying delicacy. The thought makes my chest tight.

The whiskey glass dangles forgotten from my fingers as I imagine both children together.

Sleep feels impossible. The hope churning in my chest is too bright, too sharp. Every time I close my eyes, I see my children together. The possibility of both of them whole and healthy fills my mind like smoke, impossible to grasp or dismiss.

But I need to stay focused. Nothing is certain. Bobik’s treatment might fail. The pregnancy might… No. I won’t even think it. I’ve arranged the best prenatal care available. Every precaution will be taken.

I push away from the window, abandoning thoughts of my usual night run. These thoughts have left me too raw, too exposed. I need the comfort of control right now.

I look at the surveillance app again. Stella’s peaceful form fills my screen, her chest rising and falling in the soft glow of moonlight. One hand still rests protectively over her stomach, sheltering our child even in sleep.

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