Page 3 of Pregnant Bratva Wife
I remained still, watching her. Her hair was a cascading river of beautiful, shiny blonde that fell over her shoulders. She was built slim. Dressed well in beige trousers and a light blue satin blouse, though of course I wouldn’t have called the clothes expensive.
“So I spent my last twenty dollars on gas to go to this interview, only to find out they hired internally yesterday and no one bothered to fucking call me!”
She punched the air, then let out something like a groan and a howl.
“And then—then!—I hit this—this absurdly expensive car that I can’t pay to get repaired, and now I’m going to get sued on top of everything else! Can you ever cut me a break?” she howls into the sky, straight at God.
I watched, transfixed by this woman, who seemed more like a firecracker than a car destroyer.
“God, the universetrulyhates me today, doesn’t it?” She let her voice and head drop back into her hands. “What’s next? A piano falling on my head? Just get it over with already!”
I found myself smiling when I should have been furious. She banged up my Bentley. Probably left me with a five-figure repair bill.
Yet, I found myself…fascinated.
She was as real as a woman could be. Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten what the struggles of the world were. This woman, who had just been fired from her job, had gone through a breakup with her ex, found herself on the brink of homelessness, and banged up a Bentley, somehow reminded me of the simplicities of life.
She was pure, unfiltered emotion.
In my world, when one had a tough time, they kept it hidden away behind masks. Everyone pretended to be spectacular, perfect, at the height of their success. But here she was, falling apart without apology, even finding humor in her own disaster. It was...captivating.
I stepped forward, and my shoe scuffed the ground.
She froze, then slowly looked back over her shoulder.
Jesus Christ.
Her eyes.
The bluest I’d ever seen, like the Mediterranean on a clear day.
“I—” she stammered, scrambling to her feet. Her eyes darted over me, my clothes, and the keys I clutched in my hand. “Oh my god. Is that—is this your car?”
I nodded, and she froze, like a deer in the headlights.
Up close, she was even more stunning. Young—mid-twenties, probably. Beautiful in a natural way that surgeries andtreatments aimed for but never quite managed. A pretty flush colored her cheeks as her lips were parted in shock.
“I’mso so sosorry,” she rushed on, rummaging through her purse. “I have insurance—well, I did have insurance, but it expired last month, and I couldn’t afford to renew it, but IswearI’ll pay for the damage.”
She forced the business card into my hand. “Here’s my number. You can call me when you get an estimate. I can’t pay it all at once, but I can do installments or work it off or—”
“Work it off?” I interrupted, raising an eyebrow.
Her flush deepened. “Not like that! God, no. I meant, like, cleaning or filing or whatever. I’m good at organizing things.”
I took the card, glancing at it.
Autumn Malone.
“I heard everything,” I said, watching her eyes widen. “Sounds like you’re having a rough day, Miss Malone.”
She laughed nervously. “That’s one way to put it. I’d go with ‘cosmic joke’ or ‘karmic bitch-slap,’ but ‘rough day’ works too.”
I found myself smiling, despite the day I’d had.
“Your car is worth more than my entire existence,” she continued, gesturing helplessly. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I glanced at the scratch, then back at her. “I doubt you can afford to fix this.”
