Elara took a deep breath and stared straight ahead, her fingers twitching nervously in her lap. The leather seat of the SUV squeaked slightly as she shifted. Outside the window was the suburban house she had grown up in—a white, double-story home with a small garden and rosebushes that her mother still watered religiously. It looked the same. Too the same. Like walking into a memory that could strangle you if you weren't careful.
Beside her, Nikolai sat confidently, his frame relaxed, but she could feel the tension beneath his calm exterior. He was dressed neatly in dark slacks, a navy-blue button-up shirt, and a tailored black coat. His hair was combed back, revealing the sharp structure of his jaw and the intensity of his grey eyes. On the surface, he looked like the perfect boyfriend—stable, successful, and far from the dangerous Bratva prince he really was.
He had memorized the story. Elara made sure of it.
"Okay," she whispered, exhaling slowly. "If you screw this up, I swear to God, I will smother you right now and bury you behind a church."
Nikolai raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with amusement. "Wow. That's... a threat. A very specific one. Noted. Now let's go inside."
They got out of the car and walked toward the front door. Elara rang the doorbell. She could already feel her palms getting clammy. She quickly wiped them on her skirt just as the door opened.
Her mother stood in the doorway, radiant as ever in a flowing lavender dress. Her smile widened the moment she saw Elara.
"Baby, look at you glowing," she cooed, enveloping Elara in a tight hug.
"Mom—I can't breathe," Elara mumbled, half-laughing.
Her mother pulled back and turned her attention to Nikolai. Her eyes lit up.
"Ooh, and who is this?"
Elara cleared her throat. "This is Nikolai, my boyfriend."
Nikolai stepped forward smoothly, offering her a tasteful gift bag. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Dawson. This is for you."
She gasped softly, pulling out a silk scarf. "Oh, silk! My favorite. You're already on my good side. Come on in. Honey! They're here!"
They stepped into the living room, the scent of cinnamon and fresh flowers immediately wrapping around them. Nikolai admired the neatness of the home—the polished wooden floors, family portraits on the walls, and the crystal vase on the coffee table filled with lilies.
Elara's father entered. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and stern-faced. A man who spoke with his eyes before he ever opened his mouth. He walked in with the kind of presence that could silence a room. His gaze locked onto Nikolai, assessing him like a general inspecting a soldier.
He sat in the armchair opposite them, his face unreadable.
"So, you're the boy," he said slowly.
Nikolai stood and offered his hand. "Nice to meet you, sir. My name is Nikolai. Nikolai Volkov."
Her father took the hand but didn't shake it immediately. He narrowed his eyes, and only after a tense pause did he give a firm shake.
"Russian?"
"Yes, sir. I moved to the States with my family when I was seventeen."
"Criminal record?"
"None, sir. I've done my best to avoid that kind of trouble." That, of course, was the biggest lie of the evening.
"Good." He leaned back slightly. "Ever been married?"
"No."
"Kids?"
"None."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty."
Her father's lips thinned. "Too old."
Elara stepped in. "Dad, it's just seven years. That's not a big deal. And we love each other. That's what matters."
He turned to her sharply. "Elara, this is a conversation between me and him. If you keep answering for him, I'll assume he has no backbone. Which means he's not good enough for you."
Elara shut her mouth tightly, lips pressed into a thin line.
Her father returned his gaze to Nikolai. "How long have you been seeing my daughter?"
"Four months."
"And that was long enough to come to my house and introduce yourself as her boyfriend?"
"I believe so. Because I see a future with her," Nikolai replied evenly. "And I think it's time I showed my intentions to the people she loves."
Her father didn't reply immediately. His eyes narrowed. Then, finally, he spoke. "What do you do for a living?"
"I'm a senior software systems architect at ZenoTech Industries. I manage the backend infrastructure for Fortune 500 companies, specifically developing AI-based data protection and threat detection systems."
That was the story Elara had crafted for him—perfectly believable and thoroughly researched.
"Nine to five?"
"Yes, sir. My schedule's regular, and I work from home a few days a week."
"Pays well enough?"
"More than enough, sir. I own a two-bedroom house, debt-free. I've also invested in several startups and hold stock in the firm."
Her father's brows twitched, impressed but unwilling to show it.
Then, as if suddenly making his verdict, he stood. "Let's eat."
Elara exhaled sharply. That was the moment she had been waiting for—surviving the interrogation without bloodshed. Nikolai gave her a tiny wink as they followed her parents to the dining room.
The table was set with polished silverware, ceramic dishes, and bowls filled with roasted chicken, buttered green beans, and mashed potatoes. A bottle of red wine sat in the middle.
Elara took a seat beside Nikolai. Her mother passed her a dish, and for a while, the conversation drifted to light things—weather, work, travel plans.
But Elara's mind was spinning.
She glanced at Nikolai. He looked calm, content, fitting in like he was born to. But only she knew what came next. The storm. The truth.
**She was pregnant.**
And she hadn't told her parents yet.Her fingers trembled slightly as she cut into her food.
One bomb had been defused. But the next? It was waiting. And it was going to blow the dinner table wide open.
Not yet. Not now. After lunch.
When she was ready to drop the weight of the world into her parents' laps.
Lunch was going smoothly—almost too smoothly.
The soft clinking of cutlery and the low hum of conversation filled the dining room, blending with the faint classical music playing from the Bluetooth speaker on the counter. The air smelled like roasted rosemary chicken and apple cobbler. Elara had never seen her father this calm around a man she brought home. Maybe the world wasn't ending after all.
Desert was served with pride—her mother's specialty: warm vanilla custard tarts with caramel drizzle and fresh strawberries. It was a Dawson family tradition, served only on special occasions. The moment the sweet aroma wafted through the air, Nikolai murmured a quiet "thank you" and offered a soft smile to Elara's mom, who beamed like a teenager.
Elara exchanged a glance with Nikolai, and for a moment, the world shrank to just them. His hand brushed hers beneath the table, and she gave a single subtle nod. It was time. Her chest tightened, and she inhaled deeply, the way one might before leaping into the ocean.
She cleared her throat, setting her fork down.
"Uhm... Mom, Dad, there's something we need to tell you," she said, her voice trembling slightly.
Her mother paused mid-sip of her tea and turned, her eyes curious. "What is it, sweetie?"
Elara licked her lips, heart pounding against her ribs. "Well... actually, I'm pregnant. Eight weeks."
Silence.
Utter, soul-sucking silence.
Even the family cat, Elira, stopped licking his paw mid-motion, freezing like he had understood the bomb that had just been dropped.
Her father's fork slipped from his hand and clattered loudly onto the ceramic plate. Her mother's lips parted, but no sound emerged. The warmth in her eyes was replaced by blinking confusion and something that looked eerily like shock.
"You're... what?" her father asked, his voice low and deliberate.
"Pregnant," Elara repeated, voice quieter this time. She instinctively reached under the table, and Nikolai's hand found hers instantly, squeezing reassuringly.
Her father's eyes slowly dragged toward Nikolai, the calm in them dying a quick, brutal death. His jaw clenched.
"You knocked up my daughter? Without a ring on her finger?"
Nikolai inhaled, posture straightening, though his grip on Elara's hand never loosened. "Yes, sir. And I'm deeply sorry. It wasn't planned. But I promise—I take full responsibility. I'm here. I'm not running from this."
"That's not the damn point," her father growled. "So let me get this straight—you're sitting at my table, eating my wife's dessert, because you got my daughter pregnant and figured now was a good time to introduce yourself to the family?"
"Dad, it's not like that," Elara jumped in quickly, her voice rising. "I did plan to introduce him to you and Mom before... all this happened. But then I found out I was pregnant, and we thought... it was better to do it now than later."
Her mother blinked, voice finally catching up to her brain. "Eight weeks... Elara, that's two months."
"I know. I was scared. I needed time to wrap my head around it before I said anything."
"And you, Nikolai," her father continued, eyes boring into him. "What do you think gives you the right to touch my daughter like that, to make her go through something like this?"
Nikolai didn't flinch. His tone was steady. "Nothing gives me that right, sir. But I love her. And I will take care of her—and our baby—for the rest of my life. If you'll allow me the chance to prove it."
A long, suffocating pause followed.
Elara's father leaned back, arms crossed, staring at him like a hawk about to pounce. The silence stretched so long that Elara could hear the ticking of the old wall clock above the fireplace.
Then, finally, her father sighed.
"You better mean that. Because if you even think about breaking her heart... I will operate on your brain without anesthesia. Slowly. And trust me, as a neurosurgeon, I know exactly how to keep you alive long enough to feel every second of it."
Elara blinked. Her spine went rigid. "Dad!"
He didn't even smile. He just looked at Nikolai with ice-cold resolve.
Nikolai nodded solemnly. "Understood, sir."
Her dad finally reached for his drink again. "Good. Dessert's getting cold."
Elara laughed—nervously. Part of her wanted to believe it was just a joke. The other part knew that it wasn't. Not entirely.
At least now, the secret was out. And she was still breathing. That had to count for something.