Love Me, Don't Fix Me

Three months later

The soft scent of paint lingered in the sunlit studio, clinging to the air like a memory. Nova's fingers were smeared in hues of lavender and sky blue, blending gently on the canvas before her. She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, then dabbed a final brushstroke on the portrait of a young woman running barefoot through a field of wildflowers. Her expression—carefree and filled with life—was inspired by the story her latest client had shared.

Mrs. Eleanor Winthrop, a sharp-witted woman in her sixties with silver hair and the most disarming laugh Nova had ever heard, had commissioned the painting a few weeks ago. She said she wanted to remember herself before life became responsibilities and reality. Nova had instantly connected with her. There was something about the older woman's passion and vulnerability that made this project one of Nova's favorites.

She stepped back to admire the finished work. Soft golden sunlight illuminated the canvas, bringing the image to life. Nova's chest swelled with pride. This was more than art—it was a captured feeling. Her heart warmed as she imagined Eleanor's reaction.

She wiped her hands on her smock and carefully signed her name in the lower corner of the canvas, her strokes practiced, confident. Then, setting the brush aside, she peeled off the paint-stained cloth from her body and folded it neatly. A smile touched her lips. Life was finally... good.

Her relationship with Andrew was thriving. He had become her peace, her safe space. The boy who once flinched at memories of fire and loss now smiled more freely. They had their rough beginning, but they'd healed together. And now, with every kiss, every whispered goodnight, she fell even harder.

Her mother teased her constantly.

"You're glowing again," Elara would say, her brow raised, tone knowing.

Even worse was Nikolai. Her father, the terrifying Bratva Don, was painfully involved in her reproductive health. After their reconciliation, he'd gone full protective mode again, making sure she didn't end up with a baby too soon.

"You're too young to be called mommy," he'd said one morning at breakfast, sliding a box of condoms across the table toward Andrew with all the seriousness of a drug deal.

"Double protection," he insisted. "IUD for her. Condoms for you."

"I still got pregnant with an IUD, you know," Elara had piped in dryly.

"Yes, and we are not taking any chances again," Nikolai shot back. "This is war. Andrei doesn't need a niece or nephew just yet."

Nova had wanted to crawl under the table and never surface.

Still, it was all love. Overbearing, overprotective love—but love nonetheless.

Now, standing in her paint-streaked leggings and a tank top with one strap threatening to fall off her shoulder, Nova picked up her empty water bottle from the workbench. Her throat was parched. She glanced once more at the painting, smiling fondly, then padded barefoot down the hallway and toward the kitchen.

The house was oddly quiet.

She descended the stairs and turned into the kitchen, only to pause.

Her mother was seated at the kitchen island, sipping a thick chocolate milkshake from a tall glass, her other hand resting lazily on her six-month baby bump.

"Afternoon snack?" Nova asked with a teasing grin.

Elara raised a brow. "Afternoon necessity. Your sibling is insisting."

Nova giggled and opened the fridge. "I swear that baby's going to come out demanding milkshakes and lemon tarts."

"God help us if they do," Elara muttered, taking another sip. "Nikolai will probably build a milkshake bar in the nursery."

Nova filled her bottle and leaned against the counter, taking long gulps. Her mother was mid-rant about how hard it was to reach her feet lately when she suddenly went quiet.

Nova blinked.

Elara's eyes widened. "Oh..."

Nova froze. "Oh?"

A pause. Elara shifted in her seat. Then she looked down.

"Oh."

Nova followed her gaze.

A puddle of water had begun to form on the tiled floor beneath her mother's chair.

"No. Freaking. Way," Nova said, her bottle slipping from her fingers and hitting the counter with a soft clatter.

"Way," Elara breathed, her eyes still wide. "My water just broke."

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then chaos.

"Okay, okay—uh—okay!" Nova rushed forward. "Do you feel contractions? Is it coming now? Should I call Dad? Wait—do I get towels first? Hospital bag? I don't know what to do!"

Elara tried to rise, grunting slightly as she leaned on the table. "Hospital bag is by the door. Nikolai is in the backyard shooting targets with Sergei. Go!"

Nova didn't need to be told twice.

She sprinted out the backdoor, barefoot on the patio. Sure enough, Nikolai and Sergei were by the shooting range Nikolai had installed behind the garden. Both men turned when they saw her racing toward them.

"Her water broke!" Nova screamed.

Nikolai dropped the gun. "Elara?"

"Yes! Water! Everywhere! Chocolate milkshake abandoned mid-sip!"

He didn't wait. Sergei already had his car keys out.

Within minutes, Elara was loaded gently into the backseat of Sergei's SUV. Nikolai held her hand the whole way to the hospital, barking orders at Sergei to drive faster.

Nova sat beside her, holding her mother's other hand.

"Breathe," she said, though her own heart was thudding.

"I've done this before, Nova," Elara said between winces.

"Right. Right. Still, breathe."

They arrived at the private hospital Nikolai had made sure was prepped months in advance. The staff acted with trained efficiency, ushering Elara in as if they'd been waiting all day for her.

Nova waited in the hall with Nikolai, both pacing.

"You okay?" he asked.

Nova nodded. "She's stronger than all of us combined."

Nikolai smiled faintly. "Yeah. She is."

Three hours later, a nurse walked out, smiling.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Volkov. It's a girl."

Nova gasped. Nikolai's hand tightened around her shoulder. The rush of emotion that followed was tidal—grief, joy, shock, wonder—all crashing at once.

They were led into the room, where Elara looked exhausted but radiant, a soft pink bundle nestled in her arms.

"She's perfect," she whispered.

Nova leaned in, tears burning behind her eyes. She touched her sister's tiny hand. "Hey there, baby girl."

Nikolai stood at the foot of the bed, utterly still. He looked between Elara and the baby, his expression unreadable, his eyes glassy.

"Do you want to hold her?" Elara asked.

He hesitated—then nodded. Nova watched her father cradle the newborn in his arms, a rare tenderness softening his usually stern face.

"Welcome home, little one," he murmured.

Nova smiled through her tears. This moment—this was the beginning of something new. Something beautiful. Something worth every tear shed along the way.