Page 68 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

Taking a deep breath, I nod and follow him toward the warehouse. As we approach, I can't shake the feeling that something isn't right. But the potential of this opportunity pushes me forward, even as a voice in the back of my mind whispers a warning.

Carl pushes open a rusted metal door, and we step inside the dimly lit warehouse. The air is thick with dust and the scent of old paint. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the gloom.

"Where's the artist?" I ask, my voice echoing in the cavernous space.

"Just a bit further," Carl replies, his tone oddly flat.

As we round a stack of crates, my heart nearly stops. Standing there with arms crossed and a smirk on his face is a man I'd hoped never to see again. The same cruel eyes, the samescar across his cheek. One of the men from the van during my kidnapping.

"Well, well," he drawls. "Look who's back for more."

My blood turns to ice. "Carl," I whisper, backing away. "What's going on?"

Carl's face is a mask of indifference. "Sorry, Zara. It's just business."

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. Carl, someone I trusted, my cousin seeking redemption… he's involved with these monsters who kidnapped me?

"Why?" I manage to choke out, my hand instinctively moving to protect my belly.

The scarred man chuckles. "Your boyfriend's been causing us some problems. Time to send a message."

I turn to run, but strong arms grab me from behind. My scream echoes through the warehouse as I struggle, my mind racing. How could I have been so naive? And now, trapped here, with no one knowing where I am, what will happen to me? To my baby?

No. I can’t stay here, not without putting my child at risk. When I see an opening, I must run.

Chapter 25 - Abram

The house is dark and silent as I push open the front door. No warm welcome, no delicate scent of Zara's perfume lingering in the air. My footsteps echo hollowly through the empty rooms.

"Zara?" I call out instinctively.

And then, I remember. She called earlier, mentioning she was going to track down that reclusive painter. What was his name again? Damien… Damien Levi. Right. That’s the only artist she’s been speaking of for weeks.

I loosen my tie, pouring myself a drink. The whiskey swirls in the crystal tumbler, catching the dim light. I take a long sip, savoring the burn.

I wonder if I should have insisted she take the chauffeur with her. Did she find parking?

"It's fine," I mutter to myself. "She's a grown woman. Stop obsessing."

With the staff out for the evening, I reheat leftovers and eat my solitary meal, unease gnawing at me. The ticking of the grandfather clock seems to grow louder with each passing minute.

I glance at my watch. 9:30 PM. She left around 5:30… four hours ago.

"This is ridiculous," I growl, tossing my fork down with a clatter. "Pull yourself together, Abram."

I pace the length of the dining room, my reflection fragmented in the dark windows. Zara is mine. I have nothing to fear. I need to trust her.

The thing is, I trust her, but not the world. It’s not her I’m obsessing over, per se, but rather her safety. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself as I yank out my phone and dial her number.

It rings. And rings. And rings.

"Hey, it's Zara! Leave a message, and I'll call you back!"

Her cheerful voicemail mocks me. I end the call, resisting the urge to hurl the phone across the room.

"Where the hell are you?" I mutter, raking a hand through my hair. My hands begin to tremble from anxiety. Something seems off. This is unlike Zara, to not check in.

The silence of the house presses in on me. My mind races with possibilities, each worse than the last. I try to push them away, to be rational. But the fear and need to possess, to protect what's mine—it all rises up, threatening to consume me.

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