Page 8 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
She’s trying too hard not to be noticed. That’s the giveaway.
Alexei leans in, murmuring in Russian, “That’s her?”
I don’t answer, not directly. My gaze flickers to Jessa, then back to the documents on the table. “Keep your eyes open,” I reply, voice low enough that only he can hear.
I read her name on the legal pad beside her elbow. Ms. Whitaker, the badge clipped to her sweater says. Contract translator. Hired help. No history with us until the party. Until that night. I wonder if she recognizes me, if she’s sweating under the collar, wondering if I’ll say something, if I’ll call her out. Her poker face is better than most, but she’s not quite perfect.
I turn my attention to the paperwork, asking for a summary from the lead American. Chris Jenkins, their representative, starts running through the details: investment, supply chain, the usual smoke and mirrors. He doesn’t know what’s shifted in the room, what threat has quietly arrived. I let him talk, but I’m not listening to the numbers. I’m watching the girl.
A moment later, I speak. “Ms. Whitaker, translate.” My voice is calm, just a shade too cold.
She lifts her head, finally forced to look at me. Her eyes are clear and wide, searching mine for any sign of recognition, any hint of threat. She translates, voice steady, accent crisp. Not a stutter, not a pause. If she’s scared, she hides it well.
I see her swallow, see the way her fingers tighten on the pen, knuckles pale. She knows. She remembers.
The Americans thank her, return to the business at hand. She ducks her head again, shrinking into her seat.
Alexei leans closer, his tone light but edged. “Should I dig deeper on her?”
I don’t answer immediately. I study the room. The way Jenkins keeps glancing at his phone, the way the other Russians are watching me, waiting for a signal. All the while, Jessa’s presence itches at the back of my mind. There’s no such thing as coincidence, not in my world.
“After the meeting,” I murmur. “Quietly.”
Alexei nods, sliding a folder in front of me.
The meeting starts in earnest, formal greetings turning to negotiation, each side falling into familiar roles. I listen with half an ear, my attention divided.
Chris Jenkins lays out the agenda, rattling off figures and timelines as if sheer volume could overwhelm the Russians into agreement. My men nod, impassive, offering nothing in return.
The rhythm is predictable, almost tedious, but I maintain the mask, offering small corrections, asking for clarifications, guiding the discussion without ever appearing to lead.
Every so often, I glance down the table. She sits at the end, almost invisible in her neutral clothes, hair pulled tight. Ms. Whitaker, her badge says. But I remember how her mouth trembled around my name, the way her fingers fumbled with a glass on that marble balcony. Now, she is composed, translating legalese into flawless Russian and back again, voice steady and clear. I know the language well enough to hear her skill. No mistakes. Not yet.
I notice the small things. Like the way she doesn’t meet my eyes when I speak, the way she keeps her posture painfully straight, as if she could disappear into the leather of her chair if she tried hard enough.
At one point, her hand hesitates on her notepad, a faint tremor running through her fingers before she clamps her palm over the page. She tries to recover, flipping quickly to a new sheet, but the motion is too quick, too practiced. She knows I’m watching.
The Americans notice nothing. They’re too wrapped in their own anxieties, afraid of offending the Russians, afraid of missing a clause that could cost them millions. Jenkins grows impatient as the Russians push for tighter guarantees, his voice tightening with every new demand.
“We’ll need that in writing,” he says, forcing a smile. “Non-negotiable.”
I watch her then, waiting to see how she will deliver the words in Russian. Her voice doesn’t crack. She translates “non-negotiable” with the correct edge, but her eyes dart up—quick, uncertain—before falling away again. For just a moment, I see it: a shadow of fear blooming behind her careful professionalism.
She knows it’s me. She remembers.
Alexei sends me a look across the table, silent and sharp. He’s noticed too, but I keep my expression neutral, neither friendly nor hostile. Let the others think I am just another suit, another executive, bored by the endless details. Let them think she is just another contractor, as easily forgotten as any other hired help.
Inside, I am already deciding.
There is no room for luck in our business, no patience for coincidence. A girl who overhears names and secrets at a private party, who then turns up at a negotiation less than a week later? Either someone sent her, or she is reckless in a way that will getpeople killed. It does not matter which. The outcome will be the same.
My mind works as the meeting grinds on, tracking possibilities, preparing for every path. If she runs, we follow. If she stays quiet, we watch her. If she makes a mistake—any mistake—I end it quickly. Cleanly.
I direct the conversation, asking Ms. Whitaker to clarify a clause in the Russian contract, my voice even and polite. She looks up, her face composed, and answers in perfect Russian, referencing the correct line, the correct term.
Her professionalism is impressive. Under different circumstances, I might even respect her for it.
Only I see the way her knuckles whiten as she clutches her pen. The way her throat bobs when she swallows. She feels the danger. She knows it’s real now.
