The cold glow of the night city shimmered on the panoramic windows of the penthouse, turning it into an aquarium. Vladimir Makarov locked the door behind him, leaning unsteadily against the doorframe. The smell of expensive leather and polished stone was instantly overpowered by the sudden amber scent of expensive whisky and autumn rain, which had soaked into his coat, now thrown onto the marble floor without any care.

As a rule, Vladimir was a man devoid of sentimentality and, even more so, attachment to anyone.

But not to you.

You lay on the edge of the vast bed, curled up into a defenceless, small ball, instinctively occupying the smallest possible space, trying hard to merge with the furniture. The blanket had slid down to your feet, and the thin fabric of the silk nightdress had gathered in folds on your back, revealing your shoulder blades, which were trembling even in your sleep with a barely perceptible shudder.

Vladimir had tried to drown the pain in besotted percentages, but it came back with renewed force, nearly knocking his legs from under him. Did he wish to turn back time to before? Yes. But he didn't know how.

He stepped carefully into the bedroom, acutely aware of how much of a stranger he felt in his own home. The man sat down on the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking in protest. Hidden in his jacket pocket was a small, ridiculous 'saviour': a box of chocolate-covered strawberries. An absurd, pathetic gesture. As if this could fix anything, flashed through his head, dull and helpless from alcohol. But he had bought them, because he did not know what else to do. You had once loved them, and he desperately wished to rekindle even one more spark in your eyes, even if only for a single fleeting moment.

His fingers refused to obey him, but he still managed to run them hesitantly along your shoulder, trying to attract your attention.

"Sunshine," his voice broke into a rasp. "Wake up… please."

You stirred without opening your eyes. A light, broken sigh escaped your chest, the sound of the deepest fatigue, penetrating to the bone. Then you slowly turned towards him, as though every movement required inhuman effort (which, of course, it did). You opened your eyes. They were swollen and red, covered with a veil of recent crying and the all-consuming sadness that had settled in them for the last month. But when your gaze focused on his face, there was neither reproach nor detachment in them. With your palm, you wiped at your wet cheeks, trying to erase the traces of tears that still burned the skin with an unpleasant salty moisture.

He caught your hand and pressed it to his cheek.

Guilt tightened his chest like a steel vice again. He hadn't kept an eye on you. Vladimir knew about your sleepless nights, but he had continued to comfort himself with the false belief that everything was under control. He had been absorbed by his work (dangerous, important, as it had seemed at the time) and he had sunk deeper into the game, considering it his main responsibility. In the end, he had left you alone, forced you to deal with it all by yourself. He had made you worry, he had failed to protect you, he hadn't lent a shoulder when you needed him most. He hadn't saved you. A miscarriage. He hadn't saved the baby.

Vladimir couldn't forget the room prepared with love, and those small, cute baby things you had bought in heaps with a sweet smile.

Sheer, catastrophic helplessness.

He pulled out the ridiculous little box of strawberries. You looked at it, then at him. Slowly, you took one berry and twirled it in your fingers. Another sigh, deeper than the last, escaped from your lips. And another stream of tears ran down your cheeks, leaving a wet trail.

The man could not bear it any longer. He put the silly box aside. His hand darted to your shoulders, and the other covered your belly.

His wife. His dearest one. His pain.

Clumsy kisses covered your forehead, your wet cheeks, the tip of your nose.

"I'm so sorry, my darling."

Still bound together by love.

Still… was that true? How he wished it was…