Page 1 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

Chapter 1 – Ashley

The bass from the runway speakers vibrates straight through the floorboards, a heavy, rhythmic heartbeat that matches the frantic energy backstage. The Metropolitan Pavilion is a sensory overload of silk, expensive perfume, and flashing lights, but I don’t let any of it distract me. This is my arena, and I’m in complete control.

I smooth the front of my emerald blazer dress. It’s a bold, sharp-shouldered piece that hugs every one of my curves, making me look every bit the high-end logistics CEO I am. At 5’2”, I have to command a room with presence rather than height, and today, my presence is ironclad.

“No, absolutely not,” I tell a trembling designer, my voice sharp and final as I point to a model’s outfit. “The brief called for the draped silk, not the tulle. Swap it out right now, or your collection doesn’t touch my runway. You have three minutes.”

The designer scurries off, and I turn to see my assistant, Maya Verma, walking stride-for-stride beside me, her iPad in hand as she effortlessly feeds me updates.

“The French investors just took their front-row seats, Ashley,” Maya says, her voice a calm anchor in the storm. “And the customs clearance on the Milan couture line just finalized. The freight elevator is bringing the crates up as we speak.”

“Discretion and precision, Maya,” I reply, checking a garment rack as we pass. “That’s why these people pay us the big bucks. Let’s make sure they get exactly what they paid for.”

When Maya strides away, I weave through the maze of clothing racks and frantic makeup artists, my eyes scanning every detail with practiced precision. To the untrained eye, this is a chaotic circus of vanity. To me, it’s a high-stakes logistics puzzle where every second, every fabric, and every movement is calculated down to the millimeter.

My firm, Kang Logistics, doesn’t just transport couture; we orchestrate the entire sensory experience for the world’s most elite designers. We blend absolute operational discipline with creative execution, and that’s why my clients pay seven figures for our discretion.

My focus is sliced in half when I spot Richard Sterling, a major venture capitalist who bankrolled tonight’s VIP lounge, cornering one of my lead models near the runway entrance. He’s holding a glass of scotch, his posture dripping with the casual entitlement of a man who thinks his net worth buys him backstage privileges and hands-on access.

I step directly into his path, my heels clicking with deliberate weight on the concrete.

“Mr. Sterling,” I say, offering a polite but razor-sharp smile. “The VIP lounge is on the second floor. Backstage is strictly restricted to active crew.”

He looks me up and down, his eyes lingering a little too long on the curve of my hips before meeting my gaze with a condescending smirk. “And you are?”

“Ashley Kang. CEO of Kang Logistics,” I reply, keeping my voice smooth and level, though my posture is steel. “The woman ensuring your guests actually have a flawless runway show to watch tonight.”

He chuckles, a patronizing sound. “Well, Ashley, I’m sure a pretty girl like you can make an exception for the man funding this whole circus. I was just trying to get an up-close look at the final lineup.”

“I deeply appreciate your generous funding, Mr. Sterling,” I say, my tone dropping a fraction of a degree, making it perfectly clear that his wealth doesn’t intimidate me. “Which is exactly why I’m keeping this area clear. If a single garment is damaged or a model is distracted, the show is delayed, and your return on investment drops by the minute. I’m protecting your money. Now, let me have my assistant escort you back to the lounge where the champagne is actually cold.”

He blinks, completely caught off guard by the sheer, unyielding authority in my voice. He tries to find a condescending comeback, but my gaze remains locked on his, cool and entirely unimpressed. Realizing he won’t win this round, he clears his throat and steps back, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Right. Of course. Just…making sure everything is on track,” he mutters, adjusting his suit jacket.

“It is. Because I’m running it,” I reply smoothly. I turn to a passing staff member. “Escort Mr. Sterling back to the gallery, please.”

I don’t wait to watch him leave. I turn on my heel and keep moving, my mind already pivoting back to the freight elevator.

Ten minutes later, I’m moving fast, pivoting around the velvet-draped corridor leading to the secondary staging area.

In my hands, I’m carrying the show’s centerpiece—a fragile, archival crystal-and-silk headpiece flown in from Paris, worth more than my first apartment.

Then, I hit a wall.

It’s not drywall. It’s solid, unyielding muscle.

The impact rattles my teeth. The delicate headpiece slips from my hands, hitting the polished concrete floor with a devastating, sharp clack as several intricate, hand-set crystals snap off and scatter across the floor.

“Fucking hell,” a deep, gravelly voice rumbles above me.

I take a half-step back to steady myself on my heels, my head tilting back. And back.

The man towering over me is a solid, imposing mass of effortless, devastating masculinity. Dark, slightly tousled black hair frames a face with sharp, rugged angles, but it’s his eyes that stop me cold—striking, crystal blue, assessing me with a lazy, amused curiosity.

He isn’t in a rigid tuxedo like the other investors; his style is pure, understated luxury. A black tailored shirt, the top three buttons casually undone, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark ink snaking up his wrists. As someone who breathes fashion, I instantly notice his elegant, laid-back style.

He doesn’t look remotely apologetic. In fact, a slow, lazy smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.