Page 15 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

Chapter 6 - Zara

The city streets blur past as I grip the steering wheel, my fingers steady. Abram's face flashes in my mind—those piercing grey eyes, that maddening smile. I clench my jaw, pushing the image away.

"It was a mistake," I mutter to myself. "A one-time thing."

"It was a mistake," I say aloud, though my voice is firm. "A one-time thing."

But even as I say it, his touch still lingers on my skin, his deep voice echoing in my ear. I’ve always had a clear rule: business and pleasure do not mix. And yet, with Abram, that line blurred. But one night doesn’t define me. I’m not someone who lets a fleeting moment take over.

I sigh heavily. "Focus, Zara. Your career is what matters."

The guilt and desire war inside me until I pull into the gallery parking lot. But now, it’s back to business—no more thoughts of Abram.

I smooth down my skirt and check my reflection in the rearview mirror, making sure I look every bit the consummate professional. No one can know about last night. And it won’t happen again.

Inside, the familiar white walls and gleaming floors of the gallery greet me. I breathe in the scent of oil paints and wood polish, feeling myself relax. This is where I belong.

"Morning, Zara," calls Mia from the front desk. "The vintage Rothko arrived this morning. Want to take a look?"

"Absolutely," I reply with a smile. "Let's get it hung in the east wing."

As we carefully unpack the painting, I lose myself in analyzing the bold strokes and vivid colors. This is what I live for—the thrill of showcasing incredible art.

"I think this might be his best work yet," I muse, stepping back to take in the full effect.

Mia nods in agreement. "It's stunning. You have such an eye for these things, Zara. I remember how you got us all hunting for his earlier, unknown works. And now, they’re all the rage amongst the collectors.”

Her compliment bolsters me. This gallery is my life's work, the culmination of years of dedication and ambition. I won't let anything—or anyone—derail that. It was just a one-night thing, and it’s good I left before he woke. I smile, satisfaction blooming in my chest. This is my domain. My success. A reminder that one night of letting go doesn’t undo everything I’ve built. I walked away from Abram this morning because I know where my priorities lie.

I left before breakfast, and that’s exactly how it should be.

"Let's go over the guest list for Friday's viewing," I say, all business now. "I want to make sure we've covered all our bases."

As I dive into work, Abram fades to the back of my mind. Here, surrounded by beauty and possibility, I'm in control. This is who I am—driven, focused, unstoppable.

One night of weakness won't change that. It can't.

***

"Zara, come take a look at this," my colleague Alex calls out, wheeling in a large crate. "New Russian piece just arrived."

I make my way over, curiosity piqued. As Alex carefully removes the protective wrapping, my breath catches. The painting is a swirl of deep greys and silvers, reminiscent of a cold embrace. It reminds me of a haunting Moscow morning, not that I’ve ever been. But that is the power of art, of imagination.

Suddenly, I'm back in Abram's arms, his warm hands tracing my skin, his lips on my neck. He looked at me with such care, such gentleness unfamiliar to his usual cold exterior and when he caressed my curves with such delight…

"Zara? You okay?" Alex's voice snaps me back to reality.

I clear my throat, willing the heat in my cheeks to subside. "Fine, just… admiring the brushwork. Let's hang it over there." I gesture to a blank wall, desperate to regain my composure.

As Alex moves the painting, I take a deep breath.Get it together, Zara.Abram is old news.

"It's a striking piece," I manage, my voice steadier now. "The artist really captures the intensity of—”

The words die in my throat as the door swings open, and I instinctively turn, only to seehim.

It’s Abram, standing in the doorway ofmygallery with the sunlight framing his figure like he belongs here. I stand still, hands now clasped together firmly, looking as professional as I can. What is he doing here?

Considering how devastatingly handsome he looks, I meet his eyes head-on, so as to not be distracted by the rest of him.

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