Page 30 of Porcelain Vows

No. I will never be like him.

I could never do to Stella what he did to my mother. Couldn’t inflict that kind of terror, that systematic destruction of spirit. I may be a monster in many ways— a killer, a criminal, a man who’s built his life on violence and control— but notthatkind of monster.

Never that kind.

I straighten, rolling my shoulders where muscle fatigue is starting to set in. There’s work to be done. A son to protect. A woman to win. A child on the way.

And secrets to keep buried, no matter the cost.

Chapter Thirteen

Stella

I sit down by the window in my bedroom, and look at the vast gardens outside.

Groundsmen are pruning roses in the immaculate grounds that I’m still getting used to, even after weeks have passed. My reflection in the glass shows a woman I’m also still getting used to— hair longer than I remember keeping it, face fuller, and of course, the unmistakable swell of my belly stretching the fabric of my dress.

Eight months pregnant.

The thought still catches me off guard sometimes, even as I feel my daughter’s insistent movements within me. My hand rests on the taut curve, feeling the rhythmic hiccups that Dr. Malhotra assured me are perfectly normal.

“You can expect your baby any day now,” he’d said during my last checkup, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners. “Though most first pregnancies tend to go full term or even a bit over.”

I’d nodded, both terrified and exhilarated by the thought. A few more weeks, and I’ll be holding my daughter in my arms instead of just feeling her somersaults inside me.

Some memories have returned over these past weeks— fragments of my life before the accident, like pieces of a puzzle slowly being fitted together. I remember growing up in Russia, though the details remain hazy. I remember being passionate about neuroscience, my fascination with how the brain works.I remember loving the smell of old books and the taste of dark chocolate with sea salt.

But large gaps remain, particularly around my family and how I came to be here, in this magnificent house with this complicated man who watches me like a hawk.

Aleksei told Bobik about the baby last week. I smile, remembering how the boy’s face had lit up at the news.

“A sister?” he’d exclaimed, his eyes widening with delight. “I’m going to be a big brother?”

Aleksei had nodded, one hand resting protectively on my shoulder. “Yes,synok. You’ll have a little sister soon.”

Bobik had immediately launched into plans— books he wanted to read to her, science experiments they could do together when she was older, constellations he would teach her to identify in the night sky. His enthusiasm was infectious, cutting through the fog of uncertainty that still clouds much of my existence.

A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. “Come in,” I call, turning from the window.

Diana enters, carrying a tray laden with food. “I thought you might prefer to eat here tonight,” she says, setting the tray on the small table near the window. “You seemed tired at lunch.”

“Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched by her thoughtfulness. “I am a bit worn out today.”

She arranges the dishes with quiet efficiency— a bowl of steaming borscht, freshly baked bread, a small salad, and what looks like some kind of chicken dish. The rich aromas make my stomach growl appreciatively.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, pouring water into a crystal glass. “Any more contractions?”

“Just the practice ones,” I reply, moving to sit at the table. “Braxton Hicks, Dr. Malhotra called them.”

Diana nods knowingly. “Mama used to say they were the body’s way of rehearsing for the main event.”

I pause, my spoon halfway to my mouth. “Your mother? She’s…” I trail off, not sure how to put into words what I already know. Her mother disappeared and was never heard from again. I’ve never spoken to Diana about her family, aside from the occasional joke about her brother.

“She’s gone,” Diana says simply, her expression carefully neutral. “You can say it.”

“I… I’m sorry,” I say softly. “It must be difficult.” I know it is for me.

I want to ask more, but hesitate, sensing her reluctance to elaborate. Instead, I taste the borscht, which is rich and flavorful, exactly how I like it. Another fragment of memory— eating this same soup as a child, though I can’t recall who made it for me.

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