Page 7 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
It’s him. The man from the party. The Russian with eyes like ice, hair perfectly in place, suit immaculate. He brings the cold in with him. The air shifts as he crosses the threshold. Conversation dies mid-sentence. Every gaze in the room sharpens, following his path.
I go perfectly still, pen hovering above my notepad. For one impossible second, I hope he won’t notice me, that he’ll pass me by without a second thought. I can’t help myself. I look up.
He isn’t looking at me. He’s all business, his focus set on the men at the table, not the girl tucked quietly in the corner. Still, my pulse pounds in my ears, thunderous, a drumbeat of panic I’m sure everyone can hear. My cheeks flush hot, then cold. I stare down at the page, willing myself to become invisible again.
I remind myself: I am nobody. I am the background, the help. I am not the kind of person anyone remembers from a party, especially not a man like him. But my hands betray me—they tremble as I write, my notes suddenly too neat, too deliberate.
The Americans stand to greet him, all smiles and outstretched hands. The Russians watch with the wary respect reserved for a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to make his presence known. He greets each side in turn, his English flawless, his Russian warm but formal.
No one introduces him by name, but nobody has to. The hierarchy in this room is obvious. Power settles around him like a tailored coat.
He sits at the head of the table, directly in the line of sight of every major player. He takes his time, glancing over the documents laid out, asking a short question in Russian, then switching easily to English. The negotiation begins again, tension humming like a live wire.
I keep my eyes lowered, focused on the work, translating each statement with calm, steady precision. I pretend my heart isn’t slamming against my ribs, pretend my memories of that night are nothing more than a dream.
I don’t look at him, not even when he speaks Russian in a low, thoughtful voice, not even when I have to repeat his words for the Americans, clear and professional.
Still, I feel his presence, every second. Every time he shifts in his seat, every time he looks up, my stomach knots tighter.
The meeting rolls on, language ricocheting around the table, demands and counter-demands, everything weighted withthe politics of men who never say exactly what they mean. I translate flawlessly. I make myself a machine, faceless, perfect, exactly what they paid for.
Still, I know better than to think he hasn’t noticed me. Men like him don’t miss details. They don’t forget faces. I wonder if, beneath that cold exterior, he recognizes me from the edge of a stranger’s garden, if he remembers the way I tried to vanish behind the flowers.
I hope not. I pray not.
I keep my head down, do my job, and promise myself: if I get through this meeting without a single mistake, maybe I’ll believe this was all just coincidence. Maybe, after today, life can go back to normal.
I just have to keep breathing, and hope he never looks my way.
Chapter Four - Markian
The car is quiet except for the city, all sirens and horns beyond the tinted glass. I watch it slide past, indifferent and relentless.
Midtown crowds ebb and flow on the sidewalks—people too busy to look up, too focused on their own problems to know they’re inches from danger. Lui drives the way he does everything, smooth and controlled. A professional.
My phone buzzes with new documents from the lawyers, contract drafts and background files, and I scroll through them, searching for gaps, for problems waiting to surface.
I glance up from the screen, breaking the silence. “Anything on the girl?”
Lui snorts, tapping his own phone against the wheel. He doesn’t look over. “Yeah. You’re up for a surprise.” He smirks, as if he’s seen something I haven’t, as if he’s been waiting for me to ask.
I narrow my eyes, but I don’t press. If there was trouble, he’d say. If there’s a mess, I’ll clean it. We slip underground, the car rolling to a stop in the private garage beneath the office building. Security waits by the elevator, just like always. Nothing gets missed, not in my world.
The ride up is fast. I check my tie in the mirrored doors, flatten a crease in my jacket, settle my mind into the calm that’s always come easy to me before these meetings. Upstairs, the air is cold and clean, the kind of expensive chill you only find in rooms meant for men who sign other people’s fates.
I walk through the glass doors, Alexei just ahead of me, and immediately feel it. A crackle, a warning, the shift ofsomething out of place. The Americans rise to greet us, eager, insistent, but my attention is already somewhere else.
She’s there. Tucked into the corner of the conference table, hair scraped into a neat bun, hands folded primly atop a notepad. She’s dressed in gray and navy, understated and precise, every line of her body meant to blend in, to disappear.
I know that face. I know the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes flick up and dart away. I know the instinct to vanish. I’ve seen it before once, in the garden of a house full of wolves.
Jessa Whitaker. Or whatever name she gave that night. The girl who heard too much and left too quietly. The girl who tried not to run. My jaw tightens. Across the table, Alexei notices her too, his eyebrow arching in silent question. He knows what I’m thinking because he’s thinking it himself. This isn’t luck. This is a problem.
She doesn’t look at me. She keeps her head down, pretending to take notes, eyes fixed on her hands. Professional. Unremarkable. She does a good job, because she almost fools me, but not quite.
I take my seat at the head of the table, barely hearing the introductions. The Americans start the meeting, voices taut and polite. The Russians, my men, fall in behind me, letting me set the tone.
My focus keeps drifting. I watch her from the corner of my eye, every movement, every flicker of hesitation. Her hand trembles once before she stills it.
