Page 86 of Cruel Submission

It’s not until we’re inside, doors closed, engine running, that Arkady turns to me, eyes filled with adoration.

“Maisonette,” he tells Stefan. Then to me: “We’re getting her everything.”

I want to say we have time. My due date is months away.

But I don’t.

Because I want this too. I want to walk into that store and look at tiny clothes and soft blankets. I want to imagine our daughter wearing them.

“Okay,” I say.

Arkady’s mouth curves into a smile; he’s been doing that a lot lately.

The drive takes twenty minutes. When we pull up outside the storefront, I see the window displays. Miniature furniture. Tiny clothes on tiny hangers. A mobile hanging from the ceiling, butterflies in purple and gold.

Inside, the store smells like new fabric and wood polish. A saleswoman approaches immediately.

“How can I help you today?”

“We’re having a girl,” Arkady says. His voice carries that edge of command, even here. “We need everything.”

The woman’s smile widens. “Congratulations. When are you due?”

“Four months,” I say.

“Wonderful. Let me show you our collections.”

We follow her through the store. Arkady moves like he’s conducting a military operation, pointing at cribs and changing tables and dressers. He doesn’t ask prices. Doesn’t hesitate. Just points and says, “That one.”

Pink and cream and lavender. Organic cotton and merino wool and silk. Everything so soft. So delicate.

“Mirabel.”

I turn. Arkady is holding up a onesie. Pale pink with white flowers embroidered across the front. Impossibly small.

“This one?” he asks.

“It’s beautiful.” I bite back a smile at the sight of him, the big, tough Bratva boss holding a little girl’s clothes in his tattooed hands.

He adds it to the growing pile. We move through racks of clothes. Some are beautiful. Some are absurd. A tutu for a newborn. A leather jacket in infant size.

I laugh at that one, the sound surprising me.

“She’ll be the most stylish baby in the state,” I say.

“In the world,” Arkady corrects. There’s pride in his voice. Ownership. This is his daughter, and she’ll have the best of everything because that’s what he provides.

Debra appears beside me, holding a soft yellow blanket. “This one’s nice,” she says.

I take it from her. Cashmere. Impossibly soft.

“It’s perfect,” I say.

By the time we finish, we’ve filled three shopping carts. Clothes in every shade of pink imaginable. Blankets. Towels. A mobile with stars and moons. A rocking chair. Books. Toys. A sound machine. Blackout curtains.

Everything our daughter could possibly need.

At the register, the total appears. I try not to look at the amount. Try not to think about how this one shopping trip costs more than my father’s entire first round of treatment. My father, who is going to be so thrilled to know he has a granddaughter on the way. I can’t wait to visit again to tell him.