Page 92 of Porcelain Lies

The heavy church doors swing open. Sofia appears in a cloud of white, her father’s arm linked with hers. The guests collectively sigh at the sight. I barely register any of it.

Pregnant. The word keeps hammering through my skull with each step Sofia takes down the aisle. Stella’s carrying my child. My hands clench at my sides as memories of Bobik’s birth crash over me. The joy. The terror. The rage when I learned what that drunk doctor had done.

Sofia floats closer, her smile radiant behind her veil. I force my face to remain expressionless even as my mind spins with possibilities. Another child. One that could have a normal life, play sports, run free. Be a companion to Bobik. Unless…

My throat tightens. Unless something goes wrong again. The thought of another child suffering like my boy…

The organ music seems to fade as Sofia reaches the altar. Her father places her hand in mine — her fingers are ice cold. She leans close, her expensive perfume choking me.

“What’s wrong, darling?” she whispers.

I stare straight ahead, my jaw locked. The priest begins speaking, but his words wash over me like static. All I can think about is Stella, alone somewhere with my child growing inside her. The thought of her facing this without me…

Sofia squeezes my hand, trying to get my attention. I don’t squeeze back.

My mind races with possibilities. I’m thinking about a child who I could take better care of this time. I’d ensure the best medical care from the start — specialists, private hospitals, constant monitoring. No drunk doctor would ever touch Stella or our baby.

Stella. The image of her carrying my child leaves my head spinning. Her green eyes, that gentle smile. The way she’d looked at me that night, no fear or calculation in her gaze. Just pure desire. And now…

I could move her into the manor. Keep her safe, protected. Watch her belly grow round with my child. The thought stirs something primal in my chest.

A real heir. One born from passion rather than arrangement. One who could bridge the gap between my worlds — legitimate enough for the Bratva through marriage, yet free from the toxic Novikov influence.

“Dearly beloved…”

The priest’s droning voice breaks through my planning. Sofia’s hand feels like a shackle in mine. Her fingers squeeze again, more insistent this time.

I stare at the ancient crucifix hanging above the altar, its golden surface catching the light. In my mind’s eye, I see Stella in that same golden glow, her hand resting protectively over her stomach. Our child. My chance at something real.

“We are gathered here today…”

The words echo through the church, each syllable like another nail in my coffin. Unless…

“Do you, Sofia Novikova take this man, Aleksei Tarasov, to be your lawful wedded husband?”

I watch Sofia’s painted lips curve into a triumphant smile as she delivers her “I do” with practiced perfection. Her voice rings clear through the church, dripping with satisfaction. The diamond on her finger catches the light, throwing sparkles across her white gown.

The priest turns to me, his weathered face expectant. “And do you, Aleksei Tarasov, take Sofia Novikova to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

My phone burns in my pocket where I’ve tucked it away. Two words flash through my mind:I’m pregnant.

Sofia’s fingers tighten around mine, her manicured nails digging into my skin. The pressure feels like handcuffs clicking shut.

I look past the priest to the gathered crowd. Bratva families fill the pews, their expectations heavy in the air. Diana stands in the front row, her face carefully impassive. She knows me too well — she can sense something’s wrong.

The silence stretches. Sofia’s grip becomes tighter.

“Aleksei?” the priest prompts, his brow furrowing.

I think of Bobik, hidden away in the manor’s left wing. Of all my promises to protect him, to give him a better life than I had. Of this new child, already growing in Stella’s womb. A chance to do things right from the start.

Sofia leans closer, her voice a venomous whisper. “Say it, darling. Now.”

I meet her cold gray eyes. All pretense of warmth has vanished from them.

The priest clears his throat. “Shall we continue?”

I stare at his weathered face, letting the silence stretch. The weight of every eye in this church presses against my skin. Let them watch. Let them see exactly what this moment means.

---