Page 21 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

The drive to the restaurant is charged with simmering tension, an electric undercurrent that hums beneath my skin. Zara sits beside me, her posture stiff, her gaze fixeddeterminedly out the window. She's trying so hard to maintain her composure, to cling to her anger, but I can see the cracks forming. The way her fingers twitch in her lap, the way her breath catches when I shift too close.

She's not as immune to me as she'd like to believe.

We arrive at the restaurant, a small, intimate place I chose specifically for this moment. The lighting is low, the tables secluded, the atmosphere ripe with possibility. I guide her to our table with a hand at the small of her back, feeling the way she tenses and then, almost imperceptibly, relaxes into my touch.

"This is not what I expected," she says as we sit, her eyes roaming over the elegant décor and the flickering candles.

"I'm full of surprises," I reply, signaling the waiter for wine. "You'll learn that about me."

She arches a brow. "Awfully presumptuous of you to assume there will be more opportunities for me to learn anything about you."

I lean forward, holding her gaze. "I'm a patient man, Zara. I have a feeling you'll come around."

"I know what I want," I say simply. "And I'm not afraid to go after it."

She scoffs, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

The wine arrives, a rich, deep red. I watch as Zara takes a sip and her lips lightly stain with the color. It's strangely erotic, and I feel a surge of heat, of want.

Over dinner, I steer the conversation to topics I know Zara is passionate about from studying her social media—obscure art, classical literature, and avant-garde cinema. Her initial wariness fades as she expounds eloquently on her favoritefilms and analyzes symbolism in Renaissance paintings. I listen intently, asking thoughtful questions, impressing her with my knowledge.

"I'm pleasantly surprised," she admits after a lengthy discourse on German Expressionism. "I didn't take you for a cinephile."

"I appreciate the finer things," I reply. "Art, culture, beauty…" My eyes linger on her meaningfully.

I see her trying to maintain her composure in the way she keeps her hand on her glass, to keep it from shaking, in all probability. "Is that what drew you to those paintings?" she challenges, taking a sip before putting down the glass. "A love of beauty?"

"Among other things," I murmur.

Her lips part slightly at my indirect admission. Our gazes lock, an undercurrent of attraction simmering below the surface. And then, she averts her gaze.

"Why me?" she asks suddenly, setting down her glass. "Why go to all this trouble?"

I consider her question, weighing my words. "Because you're different," I say at last. "You're not swayed by money or power. You have a strength, an integrity, that I admire. And," I add, my voice dropping lower, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't incredibly attracted to you."

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn't look away. "Attraction isn't enough. Not for me."

"I know." I reach across the table, brushing my fingers over her hand. “But what I don’t know is what actually interests you in a man.”

She frowns, as though taken aback. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

“But you must have dated men before?” I inquire, curious to know what idiots she’s been around with. Had she been my woman, I’d want to be the man she desires, just to make sure she doesn’t slip away.

“I haven’t really dated that much,” she sighs. “I haven’t been into casual relationships much.”

“Oh?”

She takes a sip of her wine. “There was a guy in freshman year I thought I was in love with. Justone. Found out he cheated on me. After that, I decided, never again.”

My eyes widen, incredulous. “Cheated on YOU? Impossible!” I can’t help but blurt out.

She looks up, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. I nod encouragingly, and she carries on. “For a while,” she tries to keep her voice from trembling. “I thought I wasn’t good enough. Even while we were together, he’d point out every flaw. Sometimes, I wasn’t thin enough. Other times, I wasn’t fun enough. And when he cheated, I thought it was because I wasn’t good enough. It took me months to learn how to function like a normal person again, to remember who I was before I met him.”

My heart clenches at the vulnerability in her voice, the pain etched in her features. How could someone like Zara, so brilliant and beautiful, ever doubt her worth?

"Zara," I say softly, my fingers tightening around hers. "You are more than enough. You are extraordinary. Any man who fails to see that is a fool, unworthy of you."

She blinks back tears with a determination in her soul that stops them from falling. A myriad of emotions dance inthose brown depths—longing, fear, desire. And something else, something deeper she hasn’t shared yet.

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