The fluorescent lights of the mall hum above you, casting a sterile glow over the pastel-colored baby clothes stacked neatly in the boutique. Your hand rests on the gentle swell of your belly, six months along now, the weight of the baby grounding you in a way nothing else does these days. Igor stands a few feet away, his broad shoulders filling out a tailored black coat, his dark eyes scanning a rack of tiny onesies with a faint smirk.

“You like this one?” he asks, holding up a pale blue jumpsuit with tiny embroidered bears. His Russian accent curls around the words, smooth but edged, like a blade wrapped in velvet. “It’s practical. Good for a boy.”

You don’t dare say you’re hoping for a girl, or that you’d rather pick something yourself. Igor’s opinions are law, even in something as small as this. He’s never hit you—never would, he claims, because “a man doesn’t need fists to keep his house in order.” But his punishments are creative. A locked door. A disconnected phone. A week of silence so heavy it feels like drowning. You’ve learned to tread carefully.

You’re dressed impeccably, as always—his choice, a sleek maternity dress that hugs your bump but feels like a costume. Your old clothes, the ones you wore before him, are long gone, donated or destroyed. “You’re my wife now,” he’d said when you protested. “You dress like it.”

As you pass a display of strollers, a familiar laugh catches your ear, sharp and bright like a bell. Your heart lurches. You know that sound. It’s Mia, your best friend from college—or she was, until last year. Until Igor told you she didn’t bother texting on your birthday, didn’t care enough to check in. “She’s jealous,” he’d said, his voice low and convincing as he handed you a glass of wine. “People like her, they don’t understand what we have. They want to tear it apart.” You’d believed him, hurt and raw, and blocked her number yourself. You blocked them all—Lila, Sarah, even quiet Emma who used to bring you coffee during late-night study sessions. They’d all abandoned you, he said. They didn’t deserve you.

But there they are, standing by a pretzel stand, their faces lit with laughter—until Mia’s eyes meet yours. Her smile falters, replaced by a look of raw concern. Lila and Sarah turn, following her gaze, and you see it too: worry, not hatred. Your stomach twists. They don’t look like villains. They look… scared for you.

“Keep moving,” Igor says, his hand grazing your elbow, firm but not bruising. “We’re not here to dawdle.” His tone is light, but there’s a warning beneath it. You hesitate, your feet rooted to the polished floor. Mia takes a step toward you, her dark curls bouncing, her voice tentative but urgent.

“Hey… oh my God, it’s you.” She glances at your belly, then back at your face, her eyes searching. “We’ve been so worried. You just—disappeared.”

You open your mouth, but the words stick. Igor’s arm slides around your waist, possessive, anchoring you to him. “She’s fine,” he says, his voice smooth as silk, but you feel the steel in it. “We’re just shopping for our son.” He emphasizes the word son, as if it’s a foregone conclusion, as if your hopes for a daughter don’t matter.

Lila steps forward, her jaw tight. “We tried calling, texting. Your phone was off for months. We thought—” She stops, glancing at Igor, then back at you. “Are you okay?”

Sarah, always the blunt one, crosses her arms. “You didn’t even read our messages. We sent you, like, a hundred texts for your birthday. Emma even dropped off a card at your old place, but the doorman said you’d moved.”

Igor’s eyes narrow, but his smile doesn’t waver. “You’re tired,” he says, loud enough for the others to hear. “The baby’s making you emotional. Let’s go home, hmm? You can rest.” It’s a command, not a suggestion, and you know what awaits if you push back.

Igor’s hand twitches, and for a moment, you think he might grab you, drag you away. But there are too many people, too many eyes. Even a man like him has limits in public. “You’re making a scene,” he says, his voice low, meant only for you.