Page 107 of Porcelain Vows

I glance at the clock. Four hours and seventeen minutes. The second hand seems to move through molasses, each tick requiring herculean effort.

Stella rises from her chair, approaching me with that quiet grace that still catches me off guard sometimes.

“You need to rest,” she says softly, taking my hand. Her fingers are cold against my overheated skin. “Just for a moment.”

“I can’t,” I reply, but I allow her to guide me to the chair she vacated. Diana immediately stands, murmuring something about coffee, and retreating down the corridor. My mother continues her prayers, the soft Russian phrases creating a soothing backdrop to my chaotic thoughts.

“Gospodi pomilui. Gospodi pomilui. Gospodi pomilui.” Lord have mercy. The ancient litany repeated in my mother’s trembling voice.

“He’s strong,” Stella whispers, her hand still holding mine. “Stronger than we give him credit for.”

The irony isn’t lost on me— the daughter of the man who caused my son’s condition now sits beside me, praying for its cure. Bobik’s entire life in a wheelchair, the result of Stella’s drunk father and a pair of mishandled forceps during delivery. Life has a twisted sense of humor, bringing us full circle to this moment.

Yet there’s no bitterness in the thought. How could there be, when Stella has shown nothing but fierce love for my son since entering our lives? When she fights for his happiness as determinedly as I do? When our daughter— Bobik’s half-sister— sleeps peacefully at home with her nurse, unaware that her brother’s future hangs in the balance today?

We are bound by blood and choices— some good, some terrible— yet here we sit, unified by love for my boy.

Five hours pass.

Then six.

Time drags, each minute stretching into what feels like hours. The extended duration feeds my anxiety— is something wrong? Has there been a complication? Dr. Malhotra warned us the procedure would be lengthy, but as the seventh hour approaches, I can’t help but imagine the worst.

A second unsuccessful operation. The final extinguishing of hope. The conversation I’ll have to have with Bobik, explaining that sometimes even the most advanced medicine has limitations.

My mouth is desert-dry. My back aches from the uncomfortable chair I’ve finally surrendered to. Diana has returned with coffee that’s grown cold in our hands, untouched. My mother’s prayers have become almost trance-like, a continuous murmur that’s both comforting and maddening.

Come on.

Come ON!

In this sterile corridor, stripped of wealth and power, I am nothing but a father waiting to hear if his son will walk. All my resources, connections, influence— useless in the face of medical reality and biological chance. I’ve never felt more helpless, not even as a child facing my father’s rage.

“Blyad,” I mutter under my breath, scrubbing a hand over my face. “What’s taking so fucking long?”

No one answers. There is no answer.

Seven hours and twenty-two minutes after they wheeled my son into surgery, the operating room doors swing open. This time, it’s not a random nurse or technician. It’s Dr. Malhotra, still in surgical scrubs, his face mask pulled down to reveal an expression I struggle to read.

The world narrows to his face, to the lines around his eyes, to the set of his mouth. Everything else— the hospital sounds, my family’s presence, my own heartbeat— fades into background static.

My mother stops praying mid-sentence. Diana freezes in her renewed pacing. Stella’s hand grips my arm with bruising force.

Dr. Malhotra approaches, his steps measured, deliberate. The distance between us seems infinite, yet closes in an instant.

“Mr. Tarasov,” he says, and I search his tone for clues, finding none. “The surgery is complete.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Aleksei

My heart is pounding so hard that I swear it will bruise my ribcage.

I stare at Dr. Malhotra’s face, searching for any hint— a twitch, a micro-expression, anything that might telegraph the outcome before his words reach me.

“Tell us, goddammit!” My voice is rough, stripped of its usual command. “Just fucking tell us!”

Dr. Malhotra’s eyes soften slightly. “The implantation was successful. All sixteen NeuroFusion nodes are in place and functioning as designed.”

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