Page 59 of Accidentally Knocked Up By the Bratva

She pushes the plate away, her skin paling. "The chicken… I think it might be bad…"

My jaw clenches, anger flaring at the thought of anything harming her. "Let me taste it," I demand, reaching for her fork.

"No, don't," she protests weakly. "I wouldn't want you to also get sick if it is."

I flag down our waiter, my voice low and dangerous. "Bring something else. Now. And tell the chef if he's poisoned my girl, there'll be hell to pay."

The waiter scurries off, terror in his eyes. Good. He should be afraid.

"Abram," Zara chides softly, but I can see the hint of a smile playing at her lips. She knows I'd burn the world for her.

When a fresh plate arrives—a light salad this time—I watch her carefully. She nibbles at a piece of lettuce, but her face remains pale.

"Still not feeling better?" I ask, reaching across to stroke her cheek.

She shakes her head, looking miserable. "I'm sorry, I don't think I can eat anything right now."

My heart clenches. This isn't how tonight was supposed to go. The ring in my pocket feels heavier by the second, my grand plans crumbling around me. But her well-being is all that matters.

Besides, this might just be a sign. This is no way to propose. What the hell was I thinking?

"That's it," I declare, standing abruptly. "We're going home."

Zara looks up at me, relief washing over her features. "Are you sure? I hate to ruin our evening…"

I cup her face gently, my thumb stroking her cheek. "Nothing's ruined, lyubov moya. Your health comes first."

As we exit the restaurant, I wrap my arm protectively around her waist, guiding her to the waiting car. The cool night air seems to help a little, bringing some color back to her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs as we slide into the backseat.

I pull her close, kissing her temple. "Don't apologize. I just want you to feel better."

***

Over the next few days, I barely leave Zara's side. My phone buzzes constantly with business, but I ignore it all. The Bratva can wait; Zara’s been feeling weak for over four days now. She’s barely eating and sleeps for half the day. I insist on calling a doctor, but she claims it’s just the common flu.

Even though I have my doubts.

"You don't have to stay," she insists weakly from her place on the couch, wrapped in blankets.

I bring her a cup of ginger tea, sitting beside her. "Wild horses couldn't drag me away, Zara."

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I can see the worry there, the questions she's not asking. I wish I had answers for her.

"What if something urgent happens at work?" she whispers, voicing her fear.

I take her hand, squeezing gently. “They can call me.”

As another day passes, I can't shake the feeling that something isn't right. Zara's symptoms seem to ebb and flow, but they're not going away. The nausea, the fatigue, the sudden aversions to certain foods—it's all starting to paint a picture in my mind, one that both thrills and terrifies me.

"How are you feeling this morning?" I ask, running my fingers through her tousled hair as she stirs in bed.

Zara groans softly. "A little better, I think. Maybe I could try some breakfast?"

I nod, eager to see her eat. "Anything you want. How about some eggs? Light and easy on the stomach."

She considers for a moment, then nods. "That sounds good, actually."

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