Page 2 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

"They'd think I was mad," I chuckle to myself, "fussing over throw pillows and color palettes."

But this space is mine, and I intend to craft it into a sanctuary amidst the chaos of our world. Each piece is carefully chosen, each detail is meticulously planned.

I make mental notes as I move through the rooms. The dining room must have a statement chandelier. The study should home the perfect leather armchair. And the bedroom…

A smirk plays at my lips as I consider the possibilities for that most intimate of spaces. Luxurious linens, of course. But perhaps also something unexpected. Something to catch the eye of any lucky visitor who might find their way there.

Not that I have much time for women. Or perhaps I haven’t yet come across the right one.

But…one never knows.

"All in good time," I remind myself, turning back to the task at hand. There's still so much to do, so many details to perfect. But that's half the pleasure, isn't it? The anticipation of creating something truly extraordinary.

A sharp knock at the door interrupts my musings. I turn to see Danyl, my ever-efficient assistant, standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Zolotov. I finalized the bookings for the art curator and interior designer last night, as you requested."

I nod, pleased. "Excellent work, Danyl. And the credentials?"

"Impeccable, Sir. The art curator comes highly recommended. Multiple degrees, extensive experience with private collections and space design. She’s the go-to for the ultra-wealthy in New York and has even acted as a consultant for the Met."

"Perfect," I say, a smile playing on my lips. "She sounds like an expert in the field. I’m sick of all these curators trying to shove god-awful, almost blank canvases down my throat in the name of modern art."

Danyl clears his throat. "There is one more thing, Sir. The art curator has arrived early. She's waiting in the foyer."

My eyebrows raise in surprise. "She's here already? Well, that's… unexpected."

"Shall I ask her to return later?" he asks, ever ready to smooth over any inconvenience.

I wave my hand dismissively. "No, no. Punctuality is a virtue. I'll meet with her now."

As I follow my assistant toward the foyer, I find myself oddly excited. It's been too long since I've had a stimulating conversation about art. I picture the curator in my mind—likely an older woman, grey-haired and bespectacled, with decades of experience etched into her face.

"This way, Sir," Danyl says, gesturing toward the foyer. I straighten my jacket, ready to greet my new advisor and decorator.

***

I step into the foyer, and the world seems to tilt on its axis. Instead of the seasoned professional I'd imagined, I'm face to face with a vision that takes my breath away. She's young, impossibly young, with porcelain skin and eyes that spark with intelligence. She’s in a skirt and blazer, the buttons tight around her curves, the cut of that blazer endearingly seductive. Her blonde hair cascades over her shoulders in waves, and her red lips curve into a slight smile as she meets my gaze.

I stop in my tracks, my hand held out in her direction in mid-air. She looks at it with a small smile and raises an eyebrow. I immediately extend it forward wholly. She takes it, her hand delicate and small in mine, and an electric current seems to pass between us. Perhaps I hold on to it a little too long but I eventually pull away.

"Mr. Zolotov," she says, her honey-brown eyes locked on mine, her voice a silken melody that sends a shiver down my spine. "I'm Zara Lyons, your new art curator."

I struggle to find my voice, my usual composure shattered. "Ms. Lyons," I manage to say. "I must admit, you're not quite what I expected."

Her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches delicately. "Oh? And what did you expect, Mr. Zolotov?"

I hesitate, knowing I'm treading on dangerous ground. "Well, given your impressive credentials, I assumed… aren't you a bit young for this role?"

Zara's eyes flash, and I realize I've made a grave mistake. "Fresh ideas require fresh perspectives, Mr. Zolotov," she retorts, her voice sharp. "Unless, of course, you prefer your art collection to be as stale and boring as last century's aesthetics."

I'm momentarily stunned by her audacity, then find myself grinning. "Touché, Ms. Lyons. Please, allow me to show you around."

“Zara, please,” she insists, lowering her head just a little, giving me a glimpse of the longest, thickest lashes I’ve ever seen.

“Abram,” I say, my voice hoarse. I extend out my hand, allowing her to walk ahead of me in the direction I lead her toward. She steps forward, and I catch the sight of her perfectly curvaceous ass, a sculpture of its own in that tight-fitting black skirt she has on.

As we move through the house, I'm acutely aware of her presence. The scent of her perfume—something light and floral with an undercurrent of musk—fills my senses, making it difficult to concentrate. I watch as she assesses each room, her keen eyes taking in every detail.

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