Chapter 141
Ivan
It hurts.
God, it hurts so much.
One moment, it was a normal morning. Zander had left for work. Maksim and I were bickering lightly about my third bowl of ice cream before noon. Everything was fine. And then— the sound of shattering glass, a deafening boom, and Maksim's arms throwing me to the floor. A wall of noise and heat swallowed us, and everything went black.
When I blink my eyes open, the world is wrong.
I can't see. It's too dark. Dust chokes the air, settling on my tongue like ash. My ears are ringing so loudly I can't hear anything else at first, just a high-pitched whine and the frantic pounding of my own heart.
There's weight on me. Heavy. But warm. Arms wrapped tight around me. I think it's Maksim—his solid body covering mine like a shield. He saved me.
"Maksim," I croak. My throat burns; my voice sounds strange in the muffled dark.
A grunt answers me. Relief floods me. He's alive.
But God, it hurts. So much.
I try to move and hiss in pain. My trembling hand instinctively presses to my stomach. It's the only place that doesn't hurt.
Our baby.
Still safe.
No stabbing pain. No wetness. That has to be good. Please, let that be good.
I feel dizzy. The darkness pulls at me again. My mind claws for something to hold on to. One desperate thought anchors me:
Please don't let me die. Please don't let us die. Zander can't handle that.
And the dark wins.
***
Zander
Thirty-six hours.
That's how long it's been since my world exploded.
Since I drove through red lights like a madman and arrived to find the penthouse reduced to rubble.
Thirty-six hours of hell.
I should be in an office, commanding, delegating. Instead I'm on my knees in the debris with dirt under my nails and blood on my hands, moving rocks and splintered metal with my own arms. I've paid for the best rescue teams, the best equipment. None of it is enough.
Because I can't just wait. I can't stand still while Ivan is buried somewhere beneath my feet.
Please be okay. Please be alive.
I don't think I can handle a world without Ivan.
My knees dig into the broken concrete as I move another slab, my hands raw and bleeding. Every rock I lift feels heavier, every second slower. Time has no meaning—just an endless stretch of pain and terror.
I mutter under my breath like a prayer:
"Hold on for me, Ivan. I'm coming. Just stay with me."
I shift to another section of rubble, sweat stinging my eyes. My body screams for rest; my head spins from hunger and exhaustion, but I can't stop. How can I rest when my husband is buried under this graveyard of steel and stone?
A rescuer calls out, "We found someone!"
I rush over, heart thundering. They dig carefully, pull out a survivor—a staff member. Relief for them, but my gut twists in disappointment.
I swallow that pain. Box it deep. I can't afford to crumble. I move back and keep searching. They beg me to rest; I snap at them to keep digging.
And then—I see it.
A scrap of fabric peeking from beneath the debris. Pale, torn, dirty.
I freeze.
My hands tremble as I pull it free.
It's a shirt. His shirt.
I know this shirt. Ivan wore it to that charity gala when he first started . I remember how stunning he looked, laughing under the chandeliers, completely unaware of how he owned my heart.
The sight of it now—the fabric frayed and smeared with dust—makes something inside me crack open.
"Ivan…" My voice breaks.
Then adrenaline surges. A flash of hope—wild, desperate.
"Here!" I roar.
"Search here! NOW!"
I know there are other people trapped, but I don't care right now. Everyone should focus on finding my husband.
*
Hours crawl like centuries. I stand on the periphery, my leg jittering with impatience as rescue trucks haul debris away piece by piece. Each slab of concrete removed only confirms what I already knew: this heap of rubble was our home.
I spot our wedding photo, cracked and smeared with dust. Seeing our smiles behind shattered glass rips something deep inside me.
Then a voice breaks the tense air:
"Something's down here!"
For the next four hours, time loses meaning again. They work slowly, carefully, because one wrong move could trigger another collapse. I don't interfere; I know enough to realize my help would only put him at more risk. So I stand there, utterly powerless, clenching my fists until my nails bite my palms.
I've never been religious, but right now I pray to anyone, anything, that might be listening.
Please.
I'm begging you.
Take whatever you want from me, just don't take him.
Another call shatters the silence.
"We found someone!"
I don't wait for permission; I shove through the circle of rescue workers to the center. No one tries to stop me—they know better. From a narrow gap between broken steel beams, I see a hand.
It's large, calloused, bloodied. Maksim.
Relief and dread wage war in my chest as they work. The process is agonizing—every move deliberate, every rock shifted like it might be the last. A slab shifts dangerously and almost slips, and my heart leaps into my throat.
Finally, they free him. Maksim is alive, but his leg is twisted unnaturally, his back sliced from glass. They strap him onto a stretcher, and my stomach lurches.
Then they shine a flashlight deeper into the gap.
And I see him.
Dust and blood cover his face. His body limp. His small frame cradled under Maksim's protective bulk.
Ivan.
My knees give out. Static fills my mind; my vision tunnels. For a second, my life loses all meaning. This can't be how his story ends.
Then—
"There's a pulse!" a paramedic shouts.
Everything reboots.
Pulse.
Pulse.
He's alive.
I stumble to my feet, nearly falling again, forcing my way closer as they slide an oxygen mask over his face. His arm dangles at an unnatural angle, but I don't care. He's breathing. He's still here.
I stagger after the stretcher as they carry him toward the waiting ambulances.