Page 57 of The Bratva’s Stalked Pregnant Bride

And now I was with someone who actually was a dream. Someone I would have been happy to call my husband by now. Some part of me believed we might be able to make this contract into something real, but that was when I thought I was going into it with something to offer.

Yes, we had passion. Oh my God, so much passion. But I couldn’t be with someone solely because he felt like he was responsible for me. After Rand, I absolutely had to be on equal footing in a relationship.

If only this were a relationship and not this weird transaction I could never repay.

That evening, Mik came home with some work for me, and I almost squealed with joy. “We’re back on track?” I asked.

“When were we off track?” he asked. “Oh, you mean with the opening? No, this is some research I thought you might enjoy. I was thinking about investing in some land in Mexico and starting my own vineyard. I’ll need an expert.”

I stared at him blankly, my mind racing. Was this his dream or mine? “Not a brewery?”

“I already have one of those,” he said. “Do you want to help or not?”

“Okay, grumpy.” Yes, of course I did. This was just what I needed.

He laughed, chucking me under the chin. “You’d know all about being grumpy. Now maybe you can stop moping around.”

So that was the reason behind this. He felt bad for me. Again. “It’s not like you’re ever around to see it,” I muttered, taking the folders from him. I mean, what was he doing all day if the restaurant was closed?

“Oh, you miss me?” he asked, giving me that panty-melting smile. “Then put that down. Let’s put on a movie and not watch it.”

All my misgivings began to dissolve. Then his phone rang. After a few short words, he ended the call. “Sorry,” he said. “I have to go.”

“Why?” I asked the first bold, direct question about what he got up to every night.

“Family,” he said, turning away.

Family. My heart sank. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him, but it was confirmation that I wasn’t part of that classification to him. “Can you set up some appointments with those realtors?” he called over his shoulder on his way out.

Dragging the folders into the living area, I sank onto a couch and spread them out on the coffee table. I had no reason to have hurt feelings. Whatever the reasons were for our fake marriage, I had agreed to it. I might not be Mik’s wife in the way I would have liked—not real, but at least equal—but I was still his employee.

Working would help me get over this strange sadness I couldn’t shake. There was no call for it. None. I was just upset that the restaurant was getting screwed up because of me, but now I could help again. Earn my keep, so to speak.

The areas featured in Mik’s folders were stunning, and I set out to research the rainfall and soil properties, and any other nearby vineyards, and what kind of grapes they grew. It was a huge relief to not have to think about striking out on my own again, for the good of those around me. I was useful again, not a burden who was ruining everything.

When I opened my calendar app to have it ready to request appointments, I was shocked to see how the time had flown since I first came to LA. I was lucky to get the job within two weeks of arriving or I would have been sunk. Then Mik took over, and everything started moving as fast as lightning, each change like a new flash.

Wait a minute. I scrolled back to the last month, and then the month before that. There was the red dot I always put on the cute calendar app to signify my period, but there wasn’t one last month. I was normally really good about that, hating to be taken by surprise by Aunt Flo.

There was the tiny sparkling star I put after the first night I lost my mind and fell into bed with Mik. It was probably stupid and childish, but the app was kind of like a secret diary to me as well as a calendar. Nobody knew what any of my virtual stickers meant, but me, and it was a nice reminder of good and bad days as well as keeping my appointments.

So there was the star, but then no red dot.

The phone fell out of my hands, and I stared straight ahead, my mind casting back, trying to remember. No freaking way. There was no freaking way. Except now all of a sudden I had a reason other than encroaching depression for being so tired lately. I pressed on my chest. Did my breasts feel tender?

Google wasn’t helping me out at all, because I was seeing all sorts of symptoms of early pregnancy applying to me. I hadn’t really been nauseous lately, right? Just wracked with guilt and worry.

I didn’t run, but my step was harried as I found the driver hanging around outside with a gardener I had been beginning to suspect also doubled as security staff.

“I need to run an errand,” I said.

“It’s after nine,” he said.

“Twenty-four-hour pharmacy,” I replied, pressing my hand against my stomach in a warning not to argue with me. I’d pull the Mrs. Fokin card if I had to.

With a shrug, he complied, and at the nearest pharmacy, I bought a couple of pregnancy tests, trying not to puke while I prayed and paid. I kept the bag clutched in my hand the entire way home, and this time I was running as soon as I got out of the car, forgetting to thank the driver.

The first one was only supposed to take a minute, but that seemed like an hour, and damn it, I was almost too nervous to pee. It didn’t take ten seconds before the line appeared, bright and bold. No way to dispute or question it. It was exactly like the positive example on the back of the box.