“Good night. Sleep well,” she replied.

Despite his exhaustion, sleep didn’t come easily. What lingered instead was the quiet realization that she was trying—really trying—to fit in. She made no demands, held no grudges, never once complained.

And all this from a girl raised in luxury—used to bossing around maids and giving orders to drivers—who had now turned into a real-life Cinderella.

It wasn’t easy for her. Everyone saw it. At first, she would collapse onto the bed and pass out from sheer fatigue. Even Uncle Pasha, perhaps feeling guilty, would bring her little gifts now and then—scarves, a dress or two, sweets he’d split with Styopa. She started tying her hair with headscarves like her mother-in-law, mimicking her gestures.

And the house… it changed with her in it. There were fresh flowers in a vase on the table, washed fruit in a bowl, a certain warmth and quiet joy in the air. The only downside was the food—when she cooked, that was still a gamble. But the men ate, forcing down whatever came out of the pot, pretending it was the best thing they’d ever tasted.

She’d watch them nervously, asking, “Is it okay? Maybe a bit burnt… or undercooked? Too salty?” They’d smile and nod, chewing bravely.

But no one was more grateful than Katerina Alexandrovna, especially on days she didn’t have to cook. At last, she had weekends off.

Time passed, and Nadya began to adjust—to the house, to the family. Spartacus watched her slender back as she lay beside him and thought: maybe this… could actually work. Maybe it didn’t have to be about money or America. Maybe there was something real here.

He reached out a hand toward her—but it stopped mid-air. He couldn’t bring himself to touch her. After a few seconds, he let his arm drop and closed his eyes with a heavy breath.

By the end of December, Spartacus was turning thirty. He usually didn’t care much for birthdays, but this time, the household insisted on a little celebration. Especially Nadya—she was getting the hang of cooking, and her pastries were starting to turn out surprisingly well. She promised to bake a cake, and Katerina Alexandrovna vowed to help her with everything.

Spartacus now worked in an auto shop in a nearby village. He had quit the underground fights and had to work hard to support the family. Slowly, he was saving up, planning to eventually move to the city. But lately, he was no longer sure that’s what he wanted. More and more, he realized that home—this home—was pulling him back.

Vera, Klavdiya, other girls… they no longer mattered. He didn’t even notice them anymore. He kept thinking about her. About Nadya. His wife.

“Oh, great… just what I need,” he muttered under his breath with a sigh.

At work, the guys forced him to put out some drinks to celebrate. They teased him about the wedding, so he had to shell out a bit. By the time he came home, he was already a little tipsy—though he tried not to show it.

Nadya had decorated the house with balloons and flowers, starting from the gate. He hadn’t expected anything special, but as soon as he stepped through the door, confetti popped and streamers filled the air. The family—and a few invited neighbors—burst into a chorus of “Happy Birthday!”

He stood there, stunned. Nothing like this had ever happened in his life. The dark winter evening lit up with colorful lights and music. The feast was fit for royalty. He started to sweat from the attention.

And then Nadya walked up to him—dressed in a simple but lovely dress, her jet-black hair falling loose around her shoulders. After the group greeting, she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. But Spartacus bent toward her, wrapped an arm around her waist—and kissed her on the lips instead. The alcohol had made him brave enough to finally do what he’d been dreaming of for months. It was a short but burning kiss. Nadya’s eyes flew open, wide with surprise. But Spartacus didn’t pull away. He kept his arms around her, watching for a reaction—expecting a slap, a scolding, anything.