Page 1 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
Chapter 1 – Ester
A low murmur of voices mixed with the steady clack of keys as I sat at my desk, half-listening to someone argue with a landline two desks over. Above, the soft buzz of fluorescent lights hummed like a tired lullaby, their warm glow draped over the open-floor office.
Here at Colton and West—a corporate firm in midtown Manhattan—everything shone. Frosted glass conference rooms, polished marble floors, and even the elevators looked expensive enough to tip.
The Wi-Fi’s good, the coffee’s excellent, and the pay’s even better. People my age would sell their souls for a job like this. Colton and West shone like diamonds; I just got good at pretending not to choke on the glitter.
I worked in finance, dealing with numbers on a daily basis, spreadsheets, and the sterile scent of money and ambition.
I was supposed to love it here, but I didn’t. The job never really resonated with me, never really fueled my soul, or filled the emptiness inside me. It was just something I did to pass the time during the day. My night activities, however, that’s where the actual fun was—the one thing that made me feel alive. Free.
In here, I felt stuck in a small box like a friggin’ bird in a cage. The company had rules that I found rather exhausting: when to show up at work, how to dress, how to speak, when to eat, yadda yadda yadda. It was like I was dressed up in a fancy blazer to work my ass out for someone else’s dream.
I didn’t belong here—never had and most probably never would. I wasn’t built to always play by the rules; I was too stubborn for that. But I also needed the money that came from saying “yes, sir” all day, every day for thirty fuckin’ days in a row.
Perched at my desk, I stared at the string of digits glowing on my dual monitor: stock options, fiscal projects, and spreadsheets bleeding into each other. My manicured fingers rattled across the keyboard, stormy gray eyes squinting at the lit screen.
My black hair, dyed with streaks of deep purple and blue, was tied into a neat bun, the kind that corporate decorum demanded. My tailored blazer fit snugly across my shoulders, the pinstripe fabric concealing the tattooed vines curling around my forearms.
The scent of my black coffee wafted into my nostrils, a subtle reminder that I hadn’t taken a sip yet. My gaze flickered to the mug sitting on my table, fingers taking a pause on the keyboard.
I lifted the mug to my lips, full and perpetually glossed with a subtle plum hue. The flavors exploded on my tongue, and I took a moment to savor the taste in my mouth.
Reclined in my chair, I exhaled sharply, pretending I couldn’t hear Dean from marketing telling the same joke he did last week. Strange how people still laughed like they hadn’t heard it before.
“…and then I told the client, ‘You can’t short the market on my time!’” He cackled, leaning on his cubicle wall.
Then came the scattered laughs from his audience—a few colleagues of ours.
I felt his gaze lingering over me, but I didn’t bother to look in his direction. There’s work to be done.
“Come on, Sharpe. That was funny,” he teased, eyes pinned on me.
I highlighted a section on my spreadsheet and hit a few shortcut keys with practiced ease.
He leaned in. “You know, if you ever smiled, the floor might stop thinking you’re plotting our downfall.”
“What makes you think I’m not?” I asked without turning to look at him.
His brows furrowed, and his eyes squinted as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Right,” he muttered.
“Hey, why are you so guarded anyway? Why so uptight all the time?” Skinny Sam asked, taking a bite of his hamburger.
Skinny Sam? More like Chubby Charles.
I never understood why they called him that, considering he had more belly than a sack of flour. Calling him Skinny Sam was like calling a bald guyHairy Harry.
“Seems to me like she’s running away from something. Hence the low profile,” Jenny from accounts chipped in, her blond hair shimmering in the soft lights. “Just saying.” She casually shrugged her shoulders after noticing the eyes on her.
I looked her dead in the eyes and said, my voice low and even, “Well, don’t go digging if you don’t wanna find a body.”
Her breath hitched, and for the next few seconds, silence fell. Clearly, the words I said and the way I said them might have come off as…disturbing. It was the best way to get those nosy people to shut up and stay in their lanes.
Skinny Sam was right. I was guarded and uptight. Like everyone else, I had skeletons in the closet I wasn’t ready to face—secrets of my own stashed away. Jenny from accounts wasn’t far from the truth either. She said I was running from something.
Maybe I was.
By 6:47 p.m., the office had already cleared out, but I was still at my desk, rounding up the day’s work. All I could think about was getting the hell out of here and enjoying the rest of my evening.
