Page 17 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

Our gazes lock in a silent battle of wills. The air between us crackles with tension, desire warring with determination. For a moment, I fear he might refuse, might try to overpower me with his sheer presence. But then, unexpectedly, he steps back.

"This isn't over," he says, his voice a promise and a threat. “I’ll be back.”

As he turns to leave, I'm left with a maelstrom of emotions—relief, disappointment, and an unsettling certainty that he's right. This is far from over.

I step out of the room and watch Abram's retreating form, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure as he strides out of the gallery. The door closes behind him with a soft click, but the air still thrums with his lingering presence.

"Damn him," I mutter, running a shaky hand through my hair. What the hell was he thinking, coming in here like this? No man has ever acted in such a sure, certain manner. No man has ever put up afightfor me.

No man should.

I turn away from the door, trying to regain my composure, but my reflection in a nearby mirror betrays me. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright with a mix of anger and something else I refuse to name.

"Get it together, Zara," I tell myself sternly.

But even as I try to focus on the tasks at hand, Abram's words echo in my mind. 'This isn't over.' The promise in his voice sends a shiver down my spine, and it’s not just steeped in anger.

There’s desire, too, though I fear to admit it.

Chapter 7 - Abram

It’s late at night, but unable to sleep, I find myself scrolling through Zara's Instagram feed, studying each post intently. Her contagious smile lights up photos from her trip to Santorini last summer. The pastel sunsets make her honey-brown eyes sparkle. She looks so carefree, feet dangling over the cliffside, wind whipping through her blonde hair. I imagine myself beside her, making her laugh.

Her love of art and travel shines through—museums in Paris, galleries in London, ancient temples in Bali. In each photo, she’s got this carefree laugh, true uninhibited joy and I long to see this side of her. Through our work together, I find she never truly let herself be free, our professional relationship hovering at the edges of her real self.

Zara's Pinterest boards are a treasure trove of inspiration. She pins recipes for chocolate souffles, her favorite. Flowers—lots of lilies. Travel destinations top her wanderlust list—Hawaii, Thailand, Morocco. I devour every detail. Her essence embeds itself in my mind.

My phone buzzes. I ignore it, too engrossed in my task.

"Boss, the shipment's arrived," my associate's voice crackles through the intercom.

"Not now," I growl, silencing the device.

"Hmm, another post about Hawaii," I murmur, tracing the curve of her smile with my finger. "You really want to go there, don't you, Zara?"

She wants adventure? I’ll give her adventure.

I reach for my phone and pull up my concierge's number.

"Two first-class tickets to Honolulu. Open-ended return," I command. "And have a bouquet of stargazer lilies sent to this gallery address every day for a week. Make sure the receiver knows it’s from me and have the tickets sent tonight itself."

"Yes, Mr. Zolotov. Who would it be addressed to?"

“Ms. Zara Lyons.”

“Noted, Sir. Anything else.”

I pause, considering. "No. That will be all."

I end the call, satisfaction coursing through me. I told her I’m not done yet, and I’m the kind of man who means what he says. Now, the question is, will these gestures be enough to show Zara just how interested I am in her? Enough to let her open the gates for me?

***

The next morning, I’m awakened most unceremoniously by the loud ringing of my phone.

“What the—” I groan. It’s 7 AM. I’m about to silence the call when I see the name flash across the screen.

Zara.

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