It wouldn’t be true to say I’m not getting somewhere with Ravil. He took me to see my parents, which he hadn’t agreed to before. He’s taking me to birthing class. He’s starting to show some trust.
I need to be careful and not violate that trust. Because Ravil told my father he cares about me. And he told me every word he said in the rehab was true.
So if I can build his trust, if I can win his forgiveness for trying to keep the baby from him, I believe I can eventually appeal to his more magnanimous side. This is a guy who gives the teens in his building a lecture about sex and offers them condoms. I believe he can be reasoned with.
Not today.
But I can bide my time.
And in the meantime, I’m not suffering. I’m in luxurious surroundings with daily massages, delicious food and more orgasms a night than I had in a year before Ravil.
And as for Ravil—well, I know he’s a criminal. I don’t believe he made the money to buy a multi-million dollar building overlooking Lake Michigan legitimately.
But I haven’t seen anything terrifying yet. He doesn’t seem mentally unstable. I have no reason to believe he’d be a bad father, if he promised to keep his business away from our child.
That would have to be the stipulation.
But we’re not ready to negotiate yet.
First, I surrender.
Give him what he wants—the security of having me under his thumb. Full access to my body at all times—I can’t say I mind that part—and the control over his son’s future that I tried to take away from him.
Later—much later—I will bring him to the bargaining table and negotiate for my freedom.
I scoop a spoonful of the blizzard and hold it out to him. “Would you like a bite?”
Chapter 12
Lucy
Svetlana holds birthing class in a conference room on the third floor of the Kremlin, where there appears to be various offices. I see a sign on a door that says, “quiet, massage in session,” and guess that must be where Natasha sees her clients.
There are a few other couples sitting around the large conference table and a mother with a baby on her hip standing up, talking to them.
“Lucy, Ravil, welcome,” Svetlana says in English with a relatively thick accent. “I’m delighted you could come.”
She gives me a hug like we’re old friends. Like the last time she saw me, she didn’t stonewall me by speaking only Russian. Of course, that was Ravil’s fault.
Svetlana pulls down a projector screen and plugs her Macbook in. She starts by having us introduce ourselves.
Hi, I’m Lucy, and I’m a prisoner in this building. The father of my child is a dangerous criminal who wants to control every aspect of my pregnancy and birth.
Wonder what they’d say if I led with that?
But no. Trust-building, I remind myself. Surrender.
“Hi, I’m Melissa,” a very young woman with long dark hair and olive skin says. “We, uh, got pregnant on our honeymoon. It was sort of unexpected, but we’re happy.”
“I’m John,” her husband says.
“I’m Larry, this is my wife Jane. This will be our third home birth with Svetlana, so we don’t really need the class, but it’s an excuse to get away from the other two kids and have a date night together,” a bearded man says. His wife laughs and snuggles against his side. “Plus, we love the videos,” Jane says.
“Oh yes, the birth videos,” the woman with the baby says. “I’ve seen them twenty times, and I still cry every time.”
Everyone smiles.
“I’m Carrie. I don’t have a birth partner,” a hippie-looking blonde says. “But I’m planning on hypnobirthing. I’ve been listening to my audios.”
Hypnobirthing. Ravil mentioned something about that to my parents. At the time, I was fairly certain it was yet another crazy thing he was throwing at me to keep me off balance. Now, it sounds more like a real thing. I make a mental note to research it.
“That’s all right. I will be your birth partner,” Svetlana says. “Or Genevieve.” She indicates the mom, who is now nursing her chubby baby in the corner. “My assistant.” Genevieve lifts her hand and waves. “I’m Genevieve. This is Sammy.” As if the baby knows he’s being talked about, he pops off her breast, leaving it exposed to the room, turns around and gives us all a dazzling smile. Milk drips from his reddened lips.
My own nipples tighten at the sight, as if my body is willing to nurse him, too, if something happens to his mother.
Everyone laughs, waves, makes baby-faces and coos over the adorable Sammy, Ravil included. It’s sweet. I relax a little.
These aren’t my people—they all seem like the crunchy, granola type, which makes sense, if Svetlana is their midwife and/or birth coach. But we’re all here for the same reason. The same result.