Page 4 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

It hits me square in the chest. It’s a rich, unfiltered sound that completely disarms me. I’m instantly tempted to keep cracking jokes just to hear it again, but I force myself to stay composed. She’s already highly skeptical of me. One wrong move, one small hint of try-hard energy, and she’ll write me off as a total prick and walk away.

I take a slow sip of my scotch, keeping my tone relaxed. “Now that you’ve saved the night and put me in my place, what’s the rest of your evening look like? Heading to one of the after-parties?”

Ashley scoffs gently, swirling the wine in her glass. “Absolutely not. My team is fully capable of closing up here. My plan is to go straight home, get out of these heels, and read.”

“Read?” I repeat, a smirk tugging at my mouth. “You really are different. Here I thought everyone in this venue lived for the spotlight.”

“The spotlight is my job, Samuel,” she says, looking at me over the rim of her glass with those dark, mesmerizing eyes. “Peace and quiet is my luxury.”

“Fair enough,” I say, leaning in just a fraction closer. “But if you’re going to starve yourself of a party, you shouldn’t starve yourself of actual food. There’s a new lounge just ten minutes up the road. Quiet, low-key, and they serve the best wood-fired plates in the city. Just a quick bite. No pressure, no expectations. Just food.”

I prepare myself for the rejection, already queuing up a charming fallback line.

Instead, she studies my face for a long, quiet second, as if weighing whether I’m worth the detour. “Fine,” she says simply. “I haven’t eaten since noon, and a lounge sounds better than delivery.”

I blink, a rare jolt of genuine shock hitting me. I quickly mask it with a smooth grin. “Well, I’m glad my pitch worked.”

“Don’t get too excited,” she warns, pointing a finger at me. “I brought my own car. I’m not leaving it here.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to,” I reply, holding up my hands. “I’ll drive ahead so you don’t have to navigate the traffic, and you can follow right behind me. Deal?”

“Deal,” she says, finishing her wine and setting the empty glass on the bar. “Lead the way, Samuel.”

Ten minutes later, we pull up to the lounge. It’s an exclusive, low-lit spot tucked away from the main strip, the kind of place where the tables are widely spaced, and discretion is built into the architecture. I step out, giving the valet a brief nod that tells him to keep both cars up front, and lead Ashley inside.

I take the lead in getting us a secluded booth toward the back, pulling out her chair like a gentleman before taking my seat across from her. She places her clutch firmly on the table, smooths down her emerald dress, and looks around the room with the assessing eye of a woman who owns her space, keeping the balance of power perfectly level.

Once the small plates of steak and roasted vegetables arrive, the conversation settles into a smooth, easy rhythm.

“So…” I say, leaning back and watching the way the candlelight plays across her dark eyes. “What do you really do?”

“I have a logistics company. We handle international transport, high-value asset protection, and event execution for elite global brands,” she says, speaking about her work with a striking, sharp clarity that makes her practically glow with pride. She doesn’t brag, but she outlines the scope of her business like the absolute boss she’s already established herself as. “It’s about zero margin for error. If a shipment is delayed by an hour, a multi-million dollar campaign falls apart.”

“Impressive as hell,” I murmur, genuinely captivated. “A lot of pressure for one person to carry.”

“I thrive on it,” she says, tilting her head, her gaze dropping to the open collar of my shirt before locking back onto my eyes. “What about you, Samuel? You didn’t exactly look like a fashion investor backstage. What’s your angle?”

I take a slow sip of my scotch, keeping my expression entirely relaxed. I’ve spent my whole life navigating high-pressure environments where charm and a quick tongue matter more than brute force, so keeping a secret is second nature. I have no intention of letting her know about the ruthless, violent reality of the Bratva, or the cold-blooded efficiency required to run my family’s empire.

“I’m in high-level operations and corporate logistics,” I reply, keeping it intentionally vague but laced with enough truth to sound authentic. “We move specialized cargo, secure supply lines, and solve…structural problems for international clients. Similar to you, just with a lot less silk and a lot more red tape.”

She narrows her dark eyes slightly, her sharp intuition picking up on the boundaries of my answer. “Operations. That sounds like a very polite word for something complicated.”

“Everything is complicated if you do it right,” I say with a slow, teasing smirk, leaning forward to pull her focus back to the game between us.

She doesn’t even blink. Instead, she leans forward too, mimicking my posture and bringing herself just close enough for me to catch the faint, intoxicating scent of her perfume over the rich smell of the wood-fired food.

“Or it’s complicated because you’re hiding something,” she counters, a sharp, knowing spark in her dark eyes. “Logistics is about transparency, Samuel. If you can’t explain what you do in one sentence, you’re either bad at it, or you’re doing something you shouldn’t be.”

I let out a low, genuine laugh, shaking my head. “You really don’t let up, do you? I promise you, my clients are very happy with my transparency. It’s just the boring, day-to-day details I’m sparing you from.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, taking a delicate bite of her steak and chewing slowly, her gaze never leaving mine. “I’ll believe that when I see it. For now, I’ll just assume you’re a corporate mystery man who likes the sound of his own voice.”

“Ouch. You’re brutal, Ashley,” I tease, though my heart is kicking against my ribs in a way that feels dangerously like excitement.

Most women are content to let me lead, nodding along to whatever charming half-truth I throw their way just to keep the mood smooth. But Ashley meets every single one of my conversational thrusts with a razor-sharp parry. She doesn’t let me dominate the space, and she sure as hell doesn’t let me get away with being lazy.

Every time I think I’ve got her cornered with a smile, she flips the board.