Page 20 of Knocked Up by the Bratva

My heart sinks. This is exactly what I was worried about. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Russel, but I’m really just focused on my work right now.”

He leans back in his chair, his smile never wavering. “Of course, of course. Just thought I’d offer.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence, and I feel my fingers clench around the edge of the table. The room feels smaller, the air thicker. My mind races, looking for a way to steer the conversation back to work, but all I can think about is how much I want to get out of here.

The air in the room feels suffocating, thick with tension as Mr. Russel continues to eye me, the subtle hints in his gaze making my skin crawl. I force a smile, determined to keep things professional. My mind scrambles to focus on work, but every word that comes out of his mouth makes that harder.

“I have to say,” he starts, leaning back in his chair with a casualness that feels far too familiar, “you’ve been making quite an impression, Jennifer. It’s not just anyone who gets results like this in such a short time.”

“Thank you,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. I sit up straighter, hoping to give off an air of confidence. “I’m just focused on making sure we hit our targets and continue to grow our reach.”

Mr. Russel’s smile tightens, his eyes lingering on me for a beat too long. “You’re very dedicated. It’s… refreshing.”

The compliment feels laced with something unspoken, and I resist the urge to shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I appreciate that,” I say, steering the conversation back to the campaign. “I’ve been analyzing the data from our latest posts, and I think we can push even further with a few adjustments to our targeting strategy.”

He waves a hand, dismissing my comment as if the work we’re discussing is secondary. “Of course, of course. You know,Jennifer, there’s more to success in this business than just crunching numbers. It’s about connections. Relationships.”

I nod, forcing my expression to remain neutral. “I agree, but I believe the results speak for themselves. The data shows that we’re on the right track.”

His smile widens, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, absolutely. You’ve certainly proven yourself… capable. I’m sure you’re just getting started.”

There’s something about the way he says it that sets me on edge, but I don’t let it show. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. “I’m always striving to do better.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze locked on mine. “You know, Jennifer, people like you… you could go far. With the right… support, who knows where you could end up?”

My pulse quickens, but not in a good way. His meaning is clear, and I can feel the discomfort crawling up my spine. This conversation has shifted, and I need to get out of here. Now.

“I appreciate the encouragement, Mr. Russel,” I say, my tone clipped but polite, “but I believe my work will speak for itself. If there’s nothing else, I’d like to get back to it.”

For a moment, his smile falters, and I can tell he’s not used to being brushed off. Then, just as quickly, he regains his composure. “Of course,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work. You’re dismissed.”

The words hit me like a cold wave of relief, and I gather my notebook quickly, trying not to look like I’m fleeing. “Thank you,” I murmur, standing up and heading for the door as fast as I can without outright running.

Once I’m out of the room, I let out a shaky breath. The tension in my chest begins to ease, but the unease still clings tome. My fingers tighten around my notebook as I make my way back to my desk, replaying the conversation in my head. Why do men like Russel think they can get away with that? Why does it always feel like we have to navigate these minefields just to do our jobs?

I drop into my chair, rubbing my temples, trying to shake off the lingering discomfort. I need to focus, need to get back to work and stop letting this bother me. As hard as I try, it’s not Mr. Russel that keeps invading my thoughts—it’s Timur.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about him. How his hand felt when he touched me, the way his lips brushed against mine that night. It’s infuriating. I shouldn’t be thinking about him. I shouldn’t want to remember any of it. My body betrays me, sending shivers through me every time I recall the rough way he held me, the heat in his eyes.

I rub the back of my neck, trying to push the memories away, but they keep flooding back. The way his fingers traced down my skin. How he growled my name, pulling me closer, owning me like I was his to claim. I press my knees together, heat rising to my cheeks as I force myself to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me.

This isn’t helping. I need to get my mind off of him, off the way he made me feel like no one else ever has. Maybe it’s just the fact that I’ve never experienced anything like that before. Maybe it’s because he’s different from every other guy I’ve ever met. He’s intense, magnetic, impossible to ignore. And the fact that he acts like nothing can faze him only makes me want to understand him more.

I shake my head. It’s not happening. It was just one night, a mistake that I need to forget. But as much as I try, I can’t get Timur out of my head.

By the time the day ends, my mind is still spinning, torn between the stress of the work meeting and my thoughts of Timur. As I head home, I replay everything that happened, from Mr. Russel’s too-close comments to the way Timur looked at me when he dropped me off. He has this way of getting under my skin, and I hate that I let him.

When I finally get home, Maeve is sitting on the couch, watching TV. She glances up as I walk in, raising an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve had a day.”

“Understatement of the year,” I mutter, dropping my bag by the door and collapsing onto the couch next to her.

“Work stuff?” she asks, turning down the volume.

I nod, rubbing my temples again. “Yeah, and… other stuff.”

Maeve smirks. “Other stuff, huh? Does that ‘other stuff’ have anything to do with a certain sexy Russian?”

I groan, throwing a pillow at her. “Stop it. I don’t want to talk about him.”

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