Page 101 of Masked Seduction
He thought of everything. My heart swells almost painfully. “You’re unbelievable.”
He locks eyes with me, seriousness edging the grin. “I’m just getting started.”
The elevator ding echoes from the hall—our driver paging up. Abram snags my hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of my wrist where the cuff bruises have faded. “Ready?”
I squeeze his hand in response. “Let’s go meet our mini troublemaker.”
We step into the corridor, fingers threaded, the door clicking shut behind us.
The valet already has Abram’s Maybach idling at the curb, glossy black reflecting a sky rinsed clean by last night’s rain. He guides me in, hand at the small of my back, then slides behind the wheel.
As we ease onto Las Vegas Boulevard, somehow the city feels softer, quieter. Maybe that’s what happens when you have a gorgeous, terrifyingly devoted boyfriend who will kill for you and a tiny life fluttering beneath your heart.
Still, anxiety prickles just under my skin. What if the baby took some hidden hit during Nico’s abuse? The doctor at the hospital said we were both fine, but what if there’s damage the ER scans missed? I chew the inside of my cheek, staring at the passing palm trees.
Abram reaches over and laces our fingers without taking his eyes off traffic. “You’re worrying,” he mutters.
I swallow. “Just a little.”
His thumb strokes my knuckles. “The doctor cleared you. The sonographer will confirm it. And if anything’s wrong, we’ll fix it. No matter what it costs.”
The certainty in his voice warms me like the sun. “Thank you,” I whisper. And I mean it—for the words and for the impossible resources behind them, for the man himself.
My phone buzzes with a message from Claire.
Ultrasound day! I want gummy-bear pics ASAP. And we’re still on for girls’ night, right?
I grin.
100%. Will inundate you with tiny baby images the second I get them. Bring those Nutella Crumbls. The spawn demands sugar.
She responds with a laughing emoji.The spawn has good taste. Good luck! And tell Mr. Bratva I said hi!
I tuck the phone away. “Claire sends her love.”
“She can have as many pictures as she wants,” Abram replies, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “In a sterling-silver frame if she wants.”
“You spoil her.”
“She kept you alive. Spoil is the bare minimum.”
The Maybach glides into the medical district, past plain brick clinics and beige insurance buildings, before turning through wrought-iron gates into something that looks more like a boutique hotel than a doctor’s office. Sculpted hedges, glass façades, muted fountains—money has clearly been poured here in buckets.
“Welcome to Desert Serenity Prenatal Center,” Abram says, pulling into a spot reserved for expectant mothers. “Best imaging center in Nevada.”
Of course it is.
Inside, the lobby smells of vanilla and lavender. Soft jazz filters down from hidden speakers. A receptionist in dove-gray scrubs greets Abram by name. He prepaid, preregistered, and probably bought the damn ultrasound machine while he was at it. Within minutes, a nurse ushers us down a hallway lined with abstract art to a private suite that’s nicer than some spas I’ve visited.
“Ms. Ridley,” she says, “Dr. Rhee will be in shortly. You can change behind the screen, gown opens in the front.” She hands me a whisper-soft wrap and disappears.
I slip out of the sundress and awkwardly tie the gown. The paper-covered table looks less terrifying with Abram parked beside it. I settle in, appreciating the comforting warmth of his hand on my knee.
A few minutes later we hear a gentle knock and the doctor enters. “Good morning, Jenna. Mr. Vasiliev.” A warm nod to Abram; clearly they’ve spoken already.
Clipboard in hand, she runs through preliminary questions regarding dizziness, spotting, diet, and stress levels. I manage to downplay the whole kidnapping ordeal with a straight face. Abram’s jaw ticks, but he stays silent.
Satisfied, Dr. Rhee smiles. “Ok then. Let’s meet your baby.”
