Chapter Text
There were very few things in life that could successfully neutralize a three-year-old.
Fortunately for Shane, the steady hum of a private jet was one of them.
Mila was currently sprawled across the cabin’s plush leather sofa, her face mashed into Shane’s thigh, while her light-up sneakers were wedged firmly into Ilya’s ribs.
Across the aisle, Kip lowered his tablet and leaned over, pitching his voice into a whisper.
"I still can't believe you're four months along," Kip said, gesturing vaguely at Shane with his stylus. "You just look like you had a very aggressive dinner."
"Tell that to my stomach," Shane deadpanned, shifting to get comfortable. He rested a hand over the small swell of his belly. "This pup is currently rejecting everything that isn't pure sodium or heavy carbs."
Kip groaned, resting his chin in his hand. "God, I feel you. I'm eight weeks in and surviving entirely on bagels. Scott had to hide the toaster from me this morning."
At the mention of food, the man sitting next to Shane stirred. Ilya cracked one eye open. His hand, previously resting near Mila’s sparkly shoes, shifted to cover Shane’s knee.
"Do you need food?" Ilya asked, his voice a sleep-rough rumble.
"I'm fine, Ilya," Shane smiled, lacing their fingers together. "Go back to sleep."
He didn't.
Before the cabin doors even opened to the freezing Russian air, Ilya tackled the monumental job of wrestling a whining toddler into a bright red winter jacket.
They bypassed the airport completely, moving from the jet to an SUV, and eventually into a private elevator that whisked them up to the quiet, sprawling warmth of a penthouse suite.
While Scott and Kip vanished into their own rooms to prep for the afternoon, Ilya lingered in the entryway, frowning at his watch.
"The executives are expecting us at one-thirty," Ilya said, glancing up at Shane. "Are you sure you don't want to just order room service and stay here?"
"If I let her stay cooped up in a hotel room all afternoon, literally no one is sleeping tonight." They both paused to watch Mila, who was currently doing laps across the living room rug. "Go make your millions. Mila and I are going to do the tourist thing."
Ilya’s frown deepened. He crossed the room, snagging a cashmere scarf from the coat rack, and effectively trapped Shane in front of the hallway mirror. Without a single word, he began meticulously wrapping the wool around Shane's neck for the third consecutive time.
"Ilya, I'm not venturing into an arctic tundra," Shane laughed, swatting lightly at Ilya’s hands. "You're strangling me."
"It is Moscow autumn," Ilya grumbled. His hands dropped, his thumbs smoothing possessively over the wool of Shane's sweater, right over the bump. "The wind has teeth. You and Mila, alone in the city..."
Shane leaned up, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his husband's mouth. "We'll be surrounded by tourists. We're just going to look at some buildings, eat pastries, and tire her out."
Right on cue, Mila abandoned her laps across the rug and skidded into the entryway, stopping just short of Ilya's dress shoes. "Papa! Go see castles now?"
Ilya scooped her up, pressing a loud kiss to her cheek that made her shriek with giggles. When he set her down, his blue eyes snapped back to Shane, serious. "Keep your phone on. If you need anything, call me. I will walk out of the meeting."
"I know you would," Shane smiled softly, stepping into his space to briefly straighten Ilya's tie. "Go terrify some executives. We'll see you before dinner."
𖹭
Ilya was right about one thing: the wind did have teeth.
Shane was clutching a scalding paper cup of street-vendor tea just to thaw his fingers as they navigated the wide, bustling sidewalks toward the Alexander Garden. Within three blocks, the physical toll of growing a human while wrangling another one began to show.
When his lower back gave a sharp, warning twinge, Shane surrendered. He guided Mila toward a wrought-iron bench beneath a golden-leafed tree, sinking down onto the cold metal with a heavy sigh.
He rubbed his spine through his coat, watching fondly as his daughter immediately zeroed in on a flock of pigeons pecking at the cobblestones.
With a delighted squeal, Mila stomped her light-up sneakers, sending half the flock scattering. But one particularly round pigeon just blinked at her.
"Dad! Bird!" Mila yelled, squatting down and extending a chubby hand. "Come here, bird."
"Don't touch him, honey, he's dirty," Shane warned.
Mila looked back at him. "His name is Boris. I take him home?"
"No, you definitely cannot take Boris home."
Shane pulled his phone from his pocket, snapping a quick photo of Mila having an intense stare-down with the pigeon.
Shane snorted, shoving his phone back into his coat pocket.
He spent the next few minutes patiently explaining to his daughter why a flock of Russian street pigeons could not relocate to their Montreal penthouse.
"But Boris is cold," Mila argued. Her bottom lip jutted out in a tremble-heavy pout that was entirely unfair—mostly because Shane knew for a fact she had inherited it directly from his own face.
"Boris has his own family to feed, baby," Shane reasoned gently, crouching down to her eye level to pull her knit hat a little further over her ears. "And he's already wearing a very warm feather coat. Come on, let's go find a real castle."
Mila gave the pigeon one last look and raised a mittened hand. "Bye, Boris," she whispered, before finally letting Shane take her hand and hauling himself back up, forcefully ignoring the dull pop in his knees.
When the expanse of Red Square finally opened up in front of them, Shane pointed up at the candy-colored domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral.
Mila stopped dead in her tracks. "Look!" she cheered, doing an excited hop-stomp. "My castle!"
"It definitely looks like a castle."
"Where is the princess?" Mila asked. She peered around the base of the cathedral with suspicion, as if expecting a woman in a ballgown to step out.
"Maybe she's sleeping," Shane suggested.
Mila gasped, both mittened hands flying to her cheeks in a moment of realization. "I am the princess? And Papa is king?"
"Papa Ilya is absolutely a king," Shane laughed. "A tall, grumpy one."
Mila beamed, doing a wobbly twirl in her red coat. But mid-spin, she paused. Her smile faded into something serious as her gaze dropped to Shane's stomach.
She shuffled closer, reaching out to pat the wool. "Baby see castle too?"
He crouched down, wincing as his bladder voiced its displeasure at the angle. "No, sweetie. The baby can't see anything yet. It's too dark in there."
Mila frowned, clearly devastated. She leaned forward, pressing her cold cheek against his coat. "Baby missing everything," she whispered to his stomach.
"We'll bring the baby back to see the castle when they're older," Shane promised softly. He pressed a kiss into her dark curls. "Deal?"
"Deal," she mumbled.
Smiling, Shane hauled himself back up to his feet and pulled his phone out.
They managed exactly one quick stop at a nearby kiosk for a vanilla ice cream - which Mila promptly painted all over her nose and chin -before the inevitable sugar crash hit.
They were only halfway down the pavement when Mila simply stopped walking, lifting both arms in universal surrender with a demanding, "Papa, carry."
"Alright, up you go," Shane grunted, hoisting her onto his hip and biting back a wince as her weight settled directly against his aching spine.
Between the dense layers of her winter coat and her heavy boots, she felt like a very adorable, incredibly dense sack of flour. Still, he just wrapped his arms around her securely, burying his freezing nose in her warm curls.
Shane stopped under the yellow glow of a streetlamp to catch his breath, balancing her dead weight carefully against his hip while he dug his phone out of his pocket.
He was right in the middle of the awkward gymnastics required to take a one-handed selfie when an older woman in a thick wool coat stopped next to them, her eyes crinkling with instant grandmotherly affection.
"You want I take?" she asked, gesturing to the phone with a thick accent.
"Oh, yes, please," Shane sighed in relief, handing the device over. "Thank you."
He shifted his grip on Mila, resting his cheek gently against her knit hat.
The woman snapped a couple of photos, patting Shane's arm with a warm nod before handing the phone back.
Shane didn't wait for the cold to settle back into his bones.
He hailed a taxi, fully intending to head straight back to the hotel and melt into the mattress. But halfway there, as the cab navigated the heavy afternoon traffic, his stomach suddenly tightened.
It was a specific, undeniable biological demand for the beef stroganoff from Rozanov’s.
Fine.
He pulled his phone out one last time, awkwardly typing out a message with his thumb while keeping his other arm securely wrapped around Mila's sleeping weight.
Shane shoved his phone and wallet into his deep coat pocket and leaned forward, handing the driver a few crisp rubles with a breathless, "Change of plans."
The second he pushed the heavy door open, a gust of freezing wind bit so hard at his cheeks that he flinched, his grip on Mila instantly slipping.
He tossed his phone and wallet onto the taxi seat for exactly two seconds - just long enough to use both hands to safely wrestle the kid out of the cab.
Shane kicked the door shut with his boot, practically jogging across the pavement to push through the heavy glass doors of the restaurant.
A host in an immaculate suit took one sweeping, faintly judgmental look at Shane's pale, wind-chapped face, his messy hair, and the dead-weight toddler in his arms. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before grabbing a menu, guiding them past the elegant front tables to a secluded, dimly lit leather booth in the very back.
Shane didn't care.
He ordered stroganoff and a plate of blini, and the moment the food arrived, Mila woke up. She eagerly dug in until she had sour cream all over her fingers, while Shane practically inhaled his own meal.
The rich food settled the gnawing ache in his stomach.
Crisis averted.
Until a tall server materialized, smoothly placing a leather-bound checkbook on the edge of the table.
"Thank you," Shane smiled, reaching into his right coat pocket.
His fingers met empty fabric.
He frowned.
Shane shifted his weight, digging his left hand into the opposite pocket, only to find the exact same nothingness. A sudden, icy prickle of sweat broke out at the base of his neck.
He sat up straighter, patting down his jeans.
The taxi.
"Excuse me, sir?" the server prompted. He tapped his pen against his notepad. Once. Twice.
Shane swallowed hard around a throat that suddenly felt lined with sandpaper. "I... I'm so sorry, but I left my wallet and my phone in the taxi."
The server’s polite, professional smile evaporated. "You have no money."
"Not on me," Shane said quickly, instinctively pulling Mila a fraction closer. "But my husband is Ilya Rozanov. If you could just let me use a phone to call our hotel, his business partners can verify who I am and bring the payment."
The server let out a short, cold scoff. "People try to claim relation to Mr. Rozanov every week to get a free meal."
"I am his husband," Shane insisted, fighting to keep his voice level as the older couple in the adjacent booth turned to stare. "Call corporate. Look up a photo. Please, get your manager."
"I will fetch the manager," the server said. The polite veneer was completely gone. "Do not move."
It took ten agonizing minutes for the manager to arrive. He planted himself directly over their booth, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
"No identification. No phone. No money," the manager listed, his voice a low, bureaucratic hum of pure dismissal. "And I am to believe Mr. Rozanov's husband wanders in off the street, panicking, begging for a five thousand ruble meal?"
"It is the truth." Shane gripped the edge of the table.
"It is a common scam." The manager didn't even blink. "Get up. You are taking up a paying table. Wait by the host stand."
Shane froze, his heart slamming wildly against his ribs.
He looked at Mila.
Her spoon was suspended halfway to her mouth, eyes wide and entirely confused.
"Come on, Mila," Shane whispered. He pulled her out of the booth, hoisting her onto his hip.
The walk to the front of the restaurant felt like a public execution. Shane could physically feel the eyes of the dining room tracking them.
"Look at him," a man at a nearby table scoffed softly to his wife, casually cutting a piece of steak. "Shameless."
Shane stood awkwardly by the front doors, the freezing draft seeping through the cracked glass and biting at his ankles. He pulled Mila closer, hiding her face in the curve of his neck so she wouldn't see the stares.
The manager stepped behind the reservation desk and picked up the landline. "What is the number?"
Shane opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He knew Ilya's number. He had dialed it a million times. From grocery stores, from airports, in the middle of the night.
But standing there under the manager's heavy silence, his brain flooded with pure, suffocating white noise.
The digits scrambled.
Was the second number a four? Or a seven? "I..." Shane stammered. His breathing turned shallow. "I can't... I can't remember."
The manager’s expression settled into absolute disgust. "You do not know your own husband's phone number."
"I know it!" Shane insisted desperately, his voice cracking. "I'm just panicking. Please, just call the Metropol." He paused, a new, paralyzing wave of horror washing over him. "Or... or the Four Seasons. Kip booked it, I don't..."
The manager hung the phone up with a sharp, definitive click. "You do not know the number. You do not know where you are staying. I'll call the police."
"Please," Shane begged. "Just let me wait here until his meeting ends. He'll come."
"I am done speaking with you." The manager turned his back, dismissing Shane entirely.
The rejection hit hard, and Mila felt it first.
She stiffened against Shane’s shoulder, her breath catching before she buried her face in his coat and let out a thin, sharp wail. It grew fast - loud, heavy, hiccuping sobs of fear that echoed through the quiet restaurant.
"Shh, baby, I know. I'm sorry," Shane whispered frantically, rocking her on his hip. He kissed her hair, trying to force his own erratic breathing to slow down. "Dad's got you. We're okay."
The minutes stretched into a suffocating, agonizing eternity.
The heavy glass doors opened.
A desperate, irrational hope flared in Shane's chest - let it be him - but it was only another wealthy stranger shaking the sleet from his tailored coat.
The man glanced at the crying child, then at Shane's pale face, and quickly looked away.
"Using a pup for a scam," a woman muttered in English as she glided past them toward the exit.
Shane bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted copper.
He turned away, shifting his weight to physically shield Mila's body with his own.