Page 25 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

“Did you enjoy the play?” he asks.

“Very much. Thank you for bringing me.”

“I’m glad. I thought of you as soon as I heard about it.” His thumb strokes the back of my hand, sending a tingle up my arm. “What did you like best?”

I describe a few of my favorite scenes, the conversation flowing as easily as our steps. But I can’t ignore the heat buildingwhere our hands touch or the way Abram’s gaze drops to my mouth when I speak.

There’s no denying the chemistry between us. Even so, I hesitate to move too fast. We’ve been dating for over three weeks now, but something seems amiss. At times, he calls me back days later. Sometimes, he forgets to reply to my texts. Just moments earlier, he told me we’d have to cancel tomorrow’s breakfast date and cut dinner tonight because he forgot he had to be somewhere.

Something’s going on with him. I want to know the man he is when we’re not together, not the one who stays silent for days at a time with no explanation.

“Can I ask you something?” I say. “You seem to disappear sometimes. Go quiet. I understand we have to cut short our plans for the evening and that you can’t make it tomorrow morning, but I was just wondering…” I trail off, unsure how to phrase the question.

Abram’s jaw tightens. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.” His tone is clipped, closed. But then he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Family business. That’s all.”

“Oh.” I try to hide my disappointment at the vague response. “I understand.”

Except I don’t, not really. Abram remains an enigma in many ways, and while the mystery intrigues me, I crave more honesty between us—a deeper connection.

If this is to become more serious, he’ll need to open up. The question is whether he’s capable of doing so. I glance at Abram, at the shuttered expression on his face, and realize it might take a while, to figure this one out.

***

The next morning, I scroll through news articles over my coffee, half awake, when a headline stops me cold.

"Notorious businessman Abram Zolotov Spotted With New Flame?"

My heart skips, then hammers as I tap the article. A high-resolution photo loads—a glitzy gala, dazzling lights, and there he is: Abram, looking every bit the part of a polished, devastatingly handsome man—his dark hair slicked back, wearing a custom-tailored suit that screams playboy, hand resting possessively on the waist of a woman.

Not just any woman—a stunning brunette, statuesque in a skin-tight, red satin gown, her lips painted the same sinful shade. I blink, leaning closer to the screen. My stomach tightens, but I keep reading.

"Abram Zolotov attends a charity gala with rumored lover, Tatiana Petrovna."

Tatiana Petrovna? Lover?

I feel the blood drain from my face. I scroll down, skimming the article, focusing on each word. The article reads like gossip designed to hurt, to provoke a reaction. But it is based on some truth. The pictures don’t lie.

“The two were inseparable all evening, seen laughing and whispering in each other’s ears. Sources close to the family claim this might be Abram’s long-time secret romance finally stepping into the spotlight.”

My jaw clenches, and I take a few deep breaths. This isn’t the time to fall apart.

The coffee turns bitter in my throat. Abram, who told me he had to cancel dinner last night because ‘something came up’, has his arm draped around some bombshell like she’s the center of his universe. In public.

The last paragraph hits like a punch:“Petrovna, the enigmatic heiress, has been linked to Abram in the past, with insiders speculating their romance has been rekindled after a quiet breakup.”

Quiet breakup? My mind spins, a wave of nausea rising. All the nights he went silent. The unexplained absences. The dismissive charm when I asked about his whereabouts. And now this—her, Tatiana, effortlessly fitting into his world while I’m left to piece things together.

But I stop. This isn’t about her. This is about him.

I scroll through the articles, finding as much news as I can about this gala. On every tabloid, Abram’s photo is splattered across their stories.

And the worst part? He was at the gala with hisfamily.There’s a photo of him and his brothers Vladimir, Denis, and Mark laughing into the camera. There’s another with him and Tatiana with his sister, Lara.She’s stunning, with those dark kohl eyes and silky black hair.

This woman, she’s close with his family.

I bite the inside of my cheek, willing myself to stay calm. Of course, a man like Abram has layers of secrets. But what stings isn’t that he’s seen with her—it's that he’s never let me into his world the way he clearly has with her.

But he’s introduced Tatiana to his family, and as for me? He never even told me how many siblings he has. I think of hissister, Lara. How her name rhymes with mine, Zara. He could have mentioned that—in a small quip, if nothing else.

---