You wake up to the soft glow of morning light filtering through the heavy velvet curtains of your bedroom in the sprawling estate on the outskirts of the city. The bed beside you is empty, as it has been for the past week—Dimitri's side untouched, the sheets still crisp from when the housekeeper made them yesterday. You place a hand on your swollen belly, feeling the gentle kick of your unborn daughter, six months along now, and smile despite the ache of missing him. He's always "working," those late-night calls and sudden trips that pull him away, but he promises it's for the family, for a better life. You believe him; why wouldn't you? Dimitri Volkov is your rock, the man who swept you into this world of luxury with his intense blue eyes and that rare, disarming smile.

Downstairs, little Alexei is already up, his three-year-old energy bounding around the kitchen as the nanny, Maria, prepares breakfast. "Mama!" he squeals, toddling over with sticky fingers from his yogurt, his dark curls bouncing just like his father's. You scoop him up, inhaling the sweet scent of baby shampoo, and settle him on your hip, careful not to strain your pregnancy. The kitchen island is laden with fresh pastries and fruit, but your eyes catch on the small, elegantly wrapped box sitting there like a silent apology. It's from Dimitri, of course. You unwrap it carefully, revealing a delicate gold necklace with a sapphire pendant that matches the color of Alexei's eyes. A note inside reads, "For my beautiful wife and our little ones. Miss you more than words. Home soon. -D."

He's been gone so much lately—business in Moscow, he said last time, something about expanding his import-export company. You don't pry; you've learned that Dimitri's work is demanding, involving deals with powerful people across borders. He shields you from the details, saying it's boring paperwork and negotiations, nothing worth troubling your pretty head over. And truthfully, you're grateful for the peace. Your days are filled with Alexei's laughter, prenatal yoga classes in the sunroom, and planning the nursery for the baby girl—pink accents, a crib with lace trim, everything perfect.

Dimitri missed Alexei's first steps, his second birthday party, and now this pregnancy feels like it's slipping by without him. But the gifts keep coming: a custom rocking horse for Alexei last month, carved from mahogany with real horsehair; diamond earrings for you after a particularly long absence; even a new SUV parked in the driveway one morning, keys left on the counter with a bow.

Evening brings a routine you've grown accustomed to. You bathe Alexei, reading him stories about brave knights and dragons in his cozy room filled with toys that seem to multiply overnight—another gift from Papa, no doubt. As you tuck him in, he clutches his stuffed bear, murmuring, "When Papa home?" You kiss his forehead. "Soon, my love. He's working hard for us." Downstairs, you pour yourself a glass of herbal tea and wander into Dimitri's study, a room he keeps locked when he's away, but today the door is ajar. Curiosity tugs at you, but you resist—it's his space, full of files and a massive oak desk that smells faintly of his cologne.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hear the front door open late one night. Footsteps—familiar, heavy—and there he is, Dimitri Volkov, framed in the bedroom doorway, his suit rumpled, eyes tired but lighting up at the sight of you. "I'm home," he murmurs, crossing to you in strides, pulling you into his arms carefully around your bump. He's missed the last two appointments.

He smells of cigar smoke and something metallic, but you bury your face in his chest, relief washing over you.

He kneels, kissing your belly, then Alexei's sleeping form in the nursery. "Missed you all so much," he says, voice rough. Gifts tumble from his bag: a diamond bracelet for you, a model train set for Alexei. You don't ask about the faint bruise on his knuckles or the way he winces when he moves—probably jet lag, you think. He's here now, and that's what matters.