Page 22 of Porcelain Vows

Oh, my God!

My daughter shifts beneath my touch, a solid reminder that not everything is lost in the fog of my memory. A small footor elbow presses against my hand, and tears spring to my eyes unbidden. This connection requires no memory; it exists purely in the present moment. I love her with a fierceness that takes my breath away.

“Hello, little one,” I whisper, circling my thumb over the spot where I felt her movement. “At least I haven’t forgotten you.”

She responds with another kick, stronger this time, as if acknowledging my words. I smile through my tears, this simple interaction anchoring me when everything else feels adrift.

My thoughts shift to Aleksei. Despite the memory loss, my body responds to mere thoughts of him with an intensity that’s both thrilling and confusing. I recall his gentleness last night—the careful way he washed my body, the kisses he placed on my pregnant belly, the protective arm he wrapped around me as I fell asleep.

He’s not that bad, surely?

There’s tenderness in him that seems at odds with his intimidating presence. His dark eyes soften when he looks at me, his touch becomes gentle despite the strength in his hands. He treats me like something precious, something he’s afraid of losing.

Yet beneath this attraction, this inexplicable connection, something whispers from the recesses of my subconscious. A warning I can’t quite hear, a shadow I can’t quite see. It’s there in the way my heart sometimes races when he moves too suddenly, in the chill that occasionally runs down my spine when his expression darkens.

What am I not remembering about him?

The question exhausts me further, and I feel my eyelids growing heavy. The phone in my pocket presses against my hip, a small weight that feels somehow significant.

Hannah.

I’ll think about her tomorrow, decide what to do. For now, sleep calls to me with irresistible force.

As consciousness begins to slip away, I keep one hand protectively spread across my belly. My daughter kicks once more, gently this time, as if saying goodnight. A smile curves my lips as sleep claims me, pulling me down into darkness where fragmented dreams await— dreams of evening wear and champagne, of money-filled suitcases and whispered Russian endearments, of a faceless woman named Hannah who seems to be calling my name from a great distance.

Somewhere in the space between sleeping and waking, a thought forms with strange clarity: I am safe here, protected.

But from what? And by whom?

The questions follow me into sleep, unanswered.

Chapter Ten

Aleksei

I drive through the hospital gates, hands tight on the steering wheel.

The Bentley purrs beneath me, but I barely notice the smooth ride. My thoughts are fixed on one thing: bringing my son home.

“We will have him up and running, Mr. Tarasov. Trust me.”Malhotra’s words echo in my head, his voice confident and reassuring when we spoke yesterday. But today, as I park in the private section reserved for VIPs, I’m not exactly optimistic.

Running.

Right.

I stop myself from snorting in disgust.

The hospital’s gleaming façade looms before me, all glass and steel and false promises. I’ve spent too many hours within these antiseptic walls, waiting for miracles that never materialized. My jaw tightens as I exit the car, straightening my suit jacket out of habit rather than necessity.

Inside, the staff recognize me immediately. They should— I’ve paid enough to own a wing of this place. A nurse leads me through corridors I know by heart now, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor. The sound grates on my nerves, but I keep my expression neutral.

Kontrol’ eto vse.Control is everything.

When I reach Bobik’s room, Dr. Malhotra is already there, clipboard in hand, speaking quietly to my son. They both look up when I enter, and something in Bobik’s smile makes my chest tighten painfully. The raw hope in his eyes hits me hard. He’s so small against the white hospital sheets, dark hair tousled, his thin arms resting on top of the blanket. For a moment, I see his mother in the curve of his cheek, and the memory claws at me.

“Papa!”His voice brightens the sterile room more effectively than the fluorescent lights overhead. The sound reverberates through my chest, cutting through the antiseptic smell and medical machinery hum.

I nod curtly to Malhotra before moving to Bobik’s side, my footsteps heavy against the polished floor. I adjust my cuffs— a tense habit I despise but cannot seem to break. My father’s hands used to fidget the same way before his rages. The comparison makes my jaw clench.

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