Katya stared at the pregnancy test in her shaking hand.

Two pink lines,No....That couldn't be right.

She dropped it in the sink and ripped open another box with trembling fingers. Her hands were so unsteady she almost dropped the second test. She forced herself to breathe, to follow the instructions, to wait the longest three minutes of her life.

Two pink lines.

"No," she whispered to the empty bathroom. "No, no, no."

She took a third test. Then a fourth. All the same.

Positive. Positive. Positive. *Positive.*

Katya's legs gave out. She sank to the cold tile floor, her back against the bathtub, staring at the row of tests lined up on the counter. All of them showing the same damning result.

She was pregnant,Her stomach churned .She barely made it to the toilet before she threw up a lot, heaving retches that left her gasping and sweating. When there was nothing left, she slumped against the wall, her whole body shaking.

This couldn't be happening.

Six weeks. It had been six weeks since the gala. Six weeks since that night in the bell tower with a man whose name she didn't know. Six weeks since her entire life had fallen apart.

She'd been in St. Krest for five of those weeks, working at a small architecture firm and trying to forget everything about Velgorod. About Aleksei's rejection. About her family's silence. About amber eyes and strong hands and a voice that had made her feel safe for the first time in her life.

She'd been so focused on surviving on finding work, on paying rent, on getting through each day that she'd ignored the signs.

The exhaustion that made her fall asleep at her desk. The nausea that hit her every morning. The way her clothes were getting tighter even though she barely ate.

She'd told herself it was stress. Just stress.

But she was three weeks late. And the math was simple.

Six weeks since the gala. Six weeks since he'd touched her. Six weeks since he'd claimed her and then disappeared like she'd meant nothing.

If she was pregnant and four tests said she was, it was his.

Katya pressed her hands over her face and tried to breathe through the panic crushing her chest.

She couldn't have a baby. She was alone. Broke. Living in a city where she knew no one. Her family had disowned her. Her pack had rejected her. She had nothing.

How could she raise a child with nothing?

An hour later, Katya sat at her tiny kitchen table with her laptop open.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, the cursor blinking on a search page. She'd already looked up three clinics. Read their websites. Found their phone numbers.

All she had to do was call. Make an appointment. End this before it gets worse.

It would be easy. Quick. No one would ever know.

Katya stared at the screen until her eyes burned.

She couldn't do it.

She closed the laptop and put her hand on her stomach. It was still flat. She couldn't feel anything different yet. But something is going on .

Her child.

Katya closed her eyes and saw her mother's face cold, disappointed, disgusted. She heard her father's silence when Aleksei called her ruined. She remembered standing alone in that ballroom while everyone whispered and judged and laughed.

Her family had abandoned her the second she stopped being useful to them.

She wouldn't do that to her child.

This baby didn't ask to be conceived in a bell tower by two people who barely knew each other. Didn't ask to have a father who disappeared and a mother who had nothing. Didn't ask for any of this.

But this baby was innocent.

And this baby was hers.

"Okay," Katya whispered to the empty apartment. "Okay. We're doing this."

She opened her laptop again. This time, she searched for something different.

*Prenatal care. St. Krest.*

The next morning, Katya walked into a human medical clinic and made her first appointment.

The receptionist barely looked up. "First prenatal visit?"

"Yes," Katya said, her voice steady. Stronger than she felt.

"Insurance?"

"I'll pay out of pocket."

The receptionist named a price that made Katya's stomach drop, but she nodded. She'd make it work somehow.

Over the next few days, Katya threw herself into planning. She couldn't fall apart. Couldn't waste time crying or wishing things were different. She had seven and a half months to prepare.

She picked up extra shifts at the architecture firm, staying late to work on projects no one else wanted. Her boss noticed and gave her a small raise. It wasn't much, but it was something.

She started looking at apartments. Her studio was too small for a baby. She found a one-bedroom place a few blocks away older, a bit run-down, but bigger and cheaper. She signed the lease that weekend.

She went to thrift stores and garage sales, buying things piece by piece. A secondhand crib. A changing table with a wobbly leg she could fix. Baby clothes in soft blues and yellows because she didn't know if it was a boy or girl yet.

She folded tiny socks and onesies on her new kitchen table, and something warm bloomed in her chest. Not quite happy she wasn't ready for that yet. But something close to hope.

She could do this. She would do this.

But late at night, when she couldn't sleep, the fear crept back in.

What if something went wrong? What if she couldn't afford everything the baby needed? What if she was a terrible mother? What if she failed?

What if her child grew up asking about their father, and all she could say was, "I don't know his name"?

Katya would press her hands to her stomach and force herself to breathe. She couldn't think like that. Couldn't let the fear win.

One day at a time. That's all she could manage.

One day at a time.

At twelve weeks, Katya went in for her first ultrasound.

She lay on the exam table, her shirt pushed up, cold gel smeared across her stomach. The technician, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, moved the wand slowly, staring at the screen.

Katya held her breath.

She could see something on the monitor. A dark blob with a tiny flickering light in the center. Her baby's heartbeat.

Tears burned behind her eyes.

The technician moved the wand again. Frowned. Adjusted the angle.

Katya's heart stopped. "Is something wrong?"

The technician was quiet for a long moment. Too long. Then she smiled.

"No," she said. "Nothing's wrong. Just..." She turned the screen toward Katya. "There are two heartbeats."

Katya blinked. "What?"

"Twins." The technician pointed to the screen. "See? Baby A here, Baby B there. Both have strong heartbeats. Congratulations."

The world tilted.

*Twins.*

Two babies. Not one. *Two.*

Katya started laughing. Or maybe crying. She couldn't tell anymore. The sound that came out of her was half sob, half hysterical giggle.

Two babies.

Two lives depending on her.

"Are you okay?" the technician asked gently.

Katya nodded, even though she wasn't sure. "Yes. I just... I wasn't expecting..."

"It's a lot to take in," the technician said. "Do you have support? Family? The father?"

Katya's smile faded. "No. Just me."

The technician's expression softened. "You're stronger than you think. Trust me. I can tell."

Katya wanted to believe her.

That night, Katya stood at her apartment window, looking out at the lights of St. Krest spread below her. Snow was starting to fall, soft and slow, covering the city in white.

She placed both hands on her stomach. It was rounder now. Just a little. Barely noticeable. But she could feel the difference.

Two babies growing inside her. Two hearts beating alongside hers.

"I don't know who your father is," Katya whispered to them. "I don't even know his name. I don't know if he's a good man or a bad one. I don't know if he's looking for me or if he's forgotten I exist."

Her voice cracked, but she kept going.

"But I promise you I'll be enough. For both of you. I'll work as hard as I have to. I'll protect you. I'll love you. And I'll never, *never* let anyone hurt you the way I was hurt."

Outside, the snow fell harder, blanketing the world in silence.

Somewhere, hundreds of miles north, an Alpha stood at his own window. Staring south. Searching for a ghost with ash-blond hair and ice-grey eyes.

But Katya didn't know that.

All she knew was that she was alone.

And that she had to be strong enough for three.

She pressed her forehead against the cold glass and let herself cry just for a moment. Just tonight.

Tomorrow, she'll be strong again.

Tomorrow, she'll keep fighting.

But tonight, she let herself grieve for the life she'd lost and the man who'd left her behind.

Tonight, she let herself be human.

Then she dried her tears, turned off the lights, and went to bed.

Because tomorrow was coming.

And her babies needed her ready.

Three months pregnant, and Katya's body was finally starting to betray her secret.

She tugged her sweater down over the small bump as she walked into the office Monday morning. The fabric stretched tight across her stomach and she'd need bigger clothes soon. Another expense she couldn't afford.

"Morning, Morozova." Her boss, Pavel Sokolov, didn't look up from his desk. Papers were scattered everywhere, coffee rings staining the blueprints. "Conference room. Five minutes. We've got a new project."

Katya nodded and headed to her desk, dropping her bag on the chair. The office was small, just six architects crammed into a converted warehouse space. Cold concrete floors. Fluorescent lights that buzzed constantly. Nothing like the elegant firms in Moscow or St. Petersburg.

But it paid. That's all that mattered.

She grabbed her portfolio and headed to the conference room. The other architects were already there, mostly men, all older than her, all looking at her like she was an inconvenience they had to tolerate.

She'd learned quickly that being young, female, and good at her job made her a target.

Pavel walked in and slapped a folder on the table. "City contract. They want to restore the old Krestovsky Theater downtown. It's a mess, water damage, structural problems, the works. They're looking for proposals by the end of month."

One of the senior architects, Mikhail, leaned back in his chair. "That's only three weeks."

"Then you better start working." Pavel's eyes swept the room and landed on Katya. "Morozova. You're leading on this."

The room went silent.

Mikhail's face turned red. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Pavel crossed his arms. "She's got the best eye for historical restoration. You know it. I know it. Stop being a bitter bastard about it."

"She's been here three months," Mikhail spat. "I've been here twelve years-"

"And in twelve years, you've never brought in a contract this big." Pavel cut him off. "Katya does this right, the city will give us more work. So unless you want to keep designing ugly apartment buildings for the rest of your life, shut up and help her."

Mikhail shoved his chair back and stormed out.

The others followed, mumbling under their breath. Only one woman remained, Daria, the office manager. She was in her fifties, sharp-tongued and no-nonsense.

"Congratulations," Daria said dryly. "You just made an enemy."

"I've had worse." Katya opened the folder and started flipping through the photos of the theater. Crumbling plaster. Rotted wood. Broken windows. It was a disaster.

It was perfect.

"When are you going to tell Pavel?" Daria nodded toward Katya's stomach.

Katya's hand instinctively moved to cover her bump. "Tell him what?"

"Don't play stupid with me, girl. I've had three kids. I know what pregnancy looks like." Daria's voice wasn't unkind, but it wasn't gentle either. "You're what, three months? Four?"

"Three," Katya admitted quietly.

"Are you planning to work until you drop?"

"I'm planning to work until I can't anymore." Katya met her eyes. "I need this job. I need the money. So I'd appreciate it if you kept your mouth shut."

Daria studied her for a long moment. Then she nodded. "Fine. But when you start showing for real, Pavel's going to notice. And he's not going to be happy you didn't tell him."

"I'll deal with it when it happens."

Daria shook her head and left.

Katya sat alone in the conference room, staring at the photos of the ruined theater. Her hand rested on her stomach, feeling the slight firmness there.

*Just hold on a little longer,* she thought. *Let me finish this project. Let me prove I'm worth keeping.*

Then she picked up her pencil and started sketching.

Two weeks later, Katya was drowning.

She worked sixteen-hour days, hunched over her desk with blueprints and sketches spread around her like a paper fortress. Her back ached. Her feet were swollen. The twins were pressing on her bladder constantly, making her run to the bathroom every twenty minutes.

But the design was coming together.

She'd spent hours at the actual theater, climbing through the wreckage with a flashlight and a notebook. Taking measurements. Photographing every detail. The building was almost a hundred years old, and underneath all the damage, it was beautiful.

She could save it. She knew she could.

"Jesus Christ, Morozova. Go home."

Katya looked up. Pavel stood in the doorway, his coat already on. Everyone else had left hours ago.

"I'm almost done," she lied.

"You said that yesterday. And the day before." He walked over and looked at her work. His expression shifted to surprise, then something like respect. "This is good. Really good."

"It's not finished-"

"It's good enough for the proposal." Pavel grabbed her coat from the hook and tossed it at her. "Go home. Eat something. Sleep. You look like death."

Katya wanted to argue, but her body screamed in agreement. She was exhausted.

"Fine." She started gathering her things. "I'll come in early tomorrow-"

"No. You'll come in at normal time like a sane person." Pavel's voice was gruff, but not cruel. "You're no good to me if you collapse."

Katya nodded and headed for the door.

"Morozova."

She turned back.

Pavel was looking at her stomach. At the bump she couldn't hide anymore, no matter how loose her clothes were.

"Daria told me," he said flatly.

Katya's heart sank. "I can still work-"

"I know you can. That's not what I'm asking." He paused. "The father. Is he not helping at all?"

"No." The word came out sharp. Bitter.

Pavel's jaw tightened. "Piece of shit."

Katya almost laughed. Almost.

"Yeah," she agreed. "He is."

"Well." Pavel shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't good with emotions. "You do good work. I'm not firing you just because you're knocked up. But after the baby came, Daria said, "twins you'll need time off."

"I know. I'll figure it out-"

"We'll figure it out," Pavel corrected. "Now get out of here before I change my mind."

Katya left before he could see the tears burning in her eyes.

That night, Katya sat in her apartment, eating cold noodles straight from the container. Too tired to cook. Too tired to care.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

*Heard you're working in St. Krest. Aleksei.*

Katya's blood went cold.

She stared at the message, her appetite vanishing. How did he get her number? How did he know where she was?

Another text came through.

*We need to talk.*

Katya deleted both messages and blocked the number.

She didn't owe him anything. Not an explanation. Not a conversation. Nothing.

He'd called her a whore in front of everyone. Had destroyed her reputation. Had refused to listen when she tried to tell him the truth.

Now he wanted to talk?

"Screw you," Katya whispered to her phone.

She threw it on the couch and went to the bathroom. Her reflection stared back at her dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled into a messy bun, her face thinner than it used to be.

But her eyes were cold now .

Good.

She didn't need to be soft anymore. Soft got you hurt. Soft got you abandoned.

Hard kept you alive.

Katya placed her hands on her stomach, feeling the twins move for the first time.tiny flutters like butterflies.

"Your father doesn't get to know you," she told them. "And neither does anyone from my old life. It's just us now. We don't need them. We don't need anyone."

She meant it.

She'd built walls around her heart, brick by brick, every day since she left Velgorod.

And she wasn't letting anyone tear them down.

Not Aleksei.

Not her family.

Not even the man with amber eyes who haunted her dreams.

She was done being the girl who got left behind.

From now on, she was the woman who survived.