Page 114 of Porcelain Vows

“Mrs. Tarasov,” he says, offering me one with a smile that still makes my heart race. “How does it feel?”

“Like coming home,” I reply, accepting both the glass and the kiss that follows. “Like everything that happened led us exactly where we were meant to be.”

He touches his glass to mine, the crystal creating a clear, bright tone. “To us,” he says simply. “Past, present, and future.”

“To us,” I echo, taking a sip from the champagne and savoring this perfect moment of peace after so much turmoil and chaos.

Around us, our unconventional family continues to celebrate— Maria dancing slowly with Polina, Bobik demonstrating to Nick how he can now wiggle his toes, Sofia laughing at something Diana has said. Security personnel maintain their vigilant watch at the perimeter, a reminder that our world remains dangerous despite this day of joy.

But here, in the circle of my husband’s arms, watching our daughter and the family we’ve forged through fire and pain, I feel something I thought I’d lost forever after my parents’ deaths.

I feel whole.

Chapter Forty-Six

Stella

A Year Later

It’s a beautiful day.

The summer garden of Blackwood Manor has been transformed into a sacred space, a white canopy billowing gently in the afternoon breeze. Beneath it stands a simple baptismal font, surrounded by gilded icons and the subtle fragrance of incense. One-year-old Polina, resplendent in her christening gown— an heirloom that once belonged to Diana— watches the proceedings with solemn dark eyes, nestled securely in her grandmother’s arms.

Maria Tarasova holds my daughter with infinite care, her silver-streaked hair caught in the sunlight as she gently sways to keep Polina content. The Orthodox priest, Father Mikhail, intones the ancient prayers in melodic Russian, the words flowing like water over stones. Though I struggle to understand every phrase, the sacredness of the moment transcends language.

My hand rests instinctively on my slightly rounded belly, the first visible evidence of our second child. At just over four months, the pregnancy remains our precious secret, shared only with Aleksei until now. Today seems the perfect moment to let our family discover this new blessing.

Aleksei stands beside me, his posture straight and proud as he watches his mother and daughter. The hard edges that once defined him have softened over the past year, though the strength remains. His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining asFather Mikhail takes Polina from Maria’s arms for the triple immersion that symbolizes death and resurrection in Orthodox tradition.

I scan the gathered family, marveling at the scene before me. Vasya stands with his wife, completing the broader Tarasov circle. Diana and her new boyfriend— a surprisingly gentle and handsome investment banker who treats her with obvious adoration— occupy seats near the front. Sofia and Nick stand together, an unlikely pair of siblings who’ve found common ground in their shared experiences of healing and recovery.

And Bobik, positioned prominently at the front in his wheelchair, watches the ceremony with intelligent eyes that miss nothing. The NeuroFusion implants have given him increasing mobility over the past year— first sensation, then movement in his toes, then gradual strengthening of his legs. His physical therapy continues daily, each small victory celebrated, each setback faced with a fierce determination that mirrors his father’s.

With his steady improvement have come small changes in Aleksei’s fear around him. The paranoia of keeping his existence secret have given way to a quiet integration into everyday life. I know it’s only a matter of time before Aleksei makes Bobik known to the world. The Bratva may be brutal, but so is my husband; he’ll keep our boy safe.

Looking around at our assembled family— once fractured, now whole— I marvel at how destiny brought us together through pain to reach this perfect moment.

The ceremony concludes with Father Mikhail making the sign of the cross over Polina’s forehead with blessed oil. My daughter, typically active and curious, has remained surprisingly calm throughout the proceedings, as if sensingtheir importance. Maria receives her back with a grandmother’s smile, pressing a kiss to her damp curls.

As the formal ceremony transitions to celebration, family members mingle beneath the summer sky. Tables laden with traditional Russian christening foods—kulichbread,paskhadessert, blini with caviar— await our gathering. Children’s toys dot the manicured lawn, evidence of the family home Blackwood Manor has become.

I accept congratulations from the others, watching Aleksei engage in quiet conversation with Vasya while still keeping Polina in his line of sight. My daughter, now freed from ceremonial constraints and dressed in a simpler outfit, explores the lawn with determined focus, pulling herself up on chairs and taking tentative, wobbling steps before dropping back to a more confident crawl.

Conversation stops as everyone notices Polina pulling herself upright using a garden chair. Though she’s been cruising along furniture for weeks, something about her determined expression suggests this moment might be different. She balances precariously, tiny hands releasing the chair as she stands independently for several heartbeats.

“Look,” Sofia whispers, pointing subtly. “Look at what she’s doing.”

The family collectively holds its breath as Polina takes one wobbly step forward, then another. Her face scrunches in concentration, arms outstretched for balance. Though she’s taken steps before, each new instance of independence feels miraculous— this tiny person who once grew inside me now forging her own path in the world.

What catches my attention, however, is her direction. Rather than moving toward Aleksei or me— her usual targets— Polina toddles deliberately toward Bobik. Her brother watches with a smile that transforms his serious face, hands gripping the arms of his wheelchair as he leans forward slightly.

“She’s heading for Bobik,” Diana murmurs, her voice tinged with emotion.

Indeed, my daughter traverses the lawn with singular purpose, occasionally dropping to crawl when balance fails, then determinedly pulling herself up again. The family’s soft cheers encourage her journey until she reaches Bobik’s wheelchair, tiny hands grasping his knees as she looks up at him with a toothless grin of accomplishment.

The connection between them has always been special— Bobik reading to her, helping with feedings, being the patient older brother despite his own challenges. Now, as Polina tugs at his knees, something passes between them that defies their age difference.

Bobik looks toward Aleksei and me with something in his eyes that makes my breath catch. I feel my heart accelerate, recognizing the determination in Bobik’s expression— the same determination that carries his father through life’s battles.

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