Page 51 of Porcelain Vows

I’ve been pacing this room for hours, trapped in my thoughts, avoiding Aleksei. My due date is in three weeks. Three weeks early is too soon. Dr. Malhotra said first babies usually come late. We’re not ready— I’m not ready.

The pain recedes, leaving me breathless but unconvinced.

False contractions.

Braxton Hicks.

That’s all this is.

I resume pacing, one hand still protectively curved around my stomach. I focus on the sunlight dappling the floor. I’ve been keeping track of time by these shadows, watching minutes stretch into hours as I avoid decisions I can’t face.

Twenty minutes later, the second contraction hits harder than the first. I gasp, doubling over as the pain radiates through my pelvis. This time, there’s no denying what’s happening.

Our daughter is coming. Today. Now.

Fear floods my system— not of the pain, but of what comes after. Of decisions I’ll have to make once she’s here. Of the man who will be her father.

The man who killed mine.

A warm trickle down my thigh confirms what I already know. My water has broken. The clock is ticking.

Shit.

I need help. I need him.

The irony isn’t lost on me as I stand there, fluid pooling at my feet, pain building again in my lower back. After days of avoiding his touch, his voice, his presence— now I need him more than ever.

You don’t have an option, Stella.

“Aleksei,” I call, my voice too weak. I clear my throat and try again, louder. “Aleksei!” His name changes into a low groan as another spasm takes me.

He appears in the doorway so quickly that I wonder if he’s been waiting just outside. His eyes take in the scene— my hunched posture, the wetness on the floor, the panic written across my face— and understanding dawns immediately.

“The baby,” he says. Not a question.

I nod, another contraction building. “It’s too early.”

Something shifts in his expression— concern replacing his usual guarded look. He crosses the room in three long strides, one arm encircling my shoulders while the other reaches for his phone.

“Three weeks is nothing,” he says, his voice steady as he dials. “She’ll be fine. You’ll both be fine.”

The certainty in his tone offers strange comfort as pain crests again. I find myself leaning into his solid frame, accepting his support despite everything I know about him. Despite Hannah’s warnings. Despite the blood on his hands.

He speaks rapidly into the phone— Russian, then English— arranging whatever a man like Aleksei Tarasov arranges when his child is about to be born. I catch fragments: “The private suite. Full security protocol. Dr. Malhotra and his team.”

His free hand rubs slow circles on my lower back, the pressure somehow easing the worst of the contraction. The gentleness of the gesture nearly undoes me.

How can these be the same hands that could kill another man?

“Can you walk?” he asks when the call ends.

Another contraction answers for me, stronger than before. I clutch his arm, nails digging into expensive fabric as I fight to breathe through the pain.

“That’s a no,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.

In one fluid motion, he lifts me into his arms. I should protest— should maintain whatever distance I can— but self-preservation wins over pride. I loop my arms around his neck as he carries me from the bedroom, down the corridor, toward the main entrance where I know his car will be waiting.

The pain ebbs for a moment, giving me clarity to observe him. His jaw is tight, eyes focused ahead, but there’s something else in his expression I’ve rarely seen: fear. Not for himself—Aleksei Tarasov fears nothing for himself— but for me. For our daughter.

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