Page 50 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

The walk to the parking garage is uneventful. The city sounds are standard—the roar of traffic, the distant wail of a siren, the rhythmic pulse of downtown. But as we descend into the concrete bowels of the garage, the atmosphere shifts. The air is stagnant.

I keep my pace steady, but a prickle of unease begins to crawl up the back of my neck. It’s a sensory mismatch: the way Daniel walks, a little too close, a little too synchronized with my own gait.

“My car is just over here,” he says, gesturing toward a sleek, black sedan tucked into a shadowed corner of the level.

“I can drive myself,” I say, stopping abruptly. My heart does a strange, stuttering flip against my ribs. “You know what, Daniel, it was great to see you, but maybe—”

“Don’t be like that, Ashley. It’s just lunch.” He steps toward me, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. It’s too static, too practiced.

Suddenly, the world tilts. The concrete floor seems to lose its solidity beneath my heels. I reach out to steady myself against a nearby pillar, but my hand misses, sliding uselessly against the rough stone. My vision smears, the stark white lights of the garage bleeding into long, sickly streaks of yellow.

The coffee.

The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow. The cup he brought, the way he timed the visit, the ease of the conversation—it was all a setup. The notebook on the desk wasn’t a mistake; it was a taunt.

I try to pull air into my lungs, but my chest feels heavy, as if someone has placed a lead weight over my sternum. My knees buckle, and I go down, the cold concrete biting into my palms.

Daniel doesn’t rush. He doesn’t panic. He walks over with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who knows he has already won. He kneels down, his face hovering inches from mine, his expression a chilling, blank mask of satisfaction.

“You really should’ve stayed in your cage, my love,” he whispers, his voice devoid of the warmth he projected in my office. It’s cold, possessive, and terrifyingly familiar.

The pieces click into place with agonizing clarity. The obsession, the monitoring, the threats—it wasn’t some faceless shadow. It was him. It was the man I once trusted to stand beside me on a stage, now standing over me in the dark, ready to drag me into his own version of hell.

“Samuel…” I try to scream, but the word is just a pathetic, garbled whisper.

My eyelids grow heavy, the weight of the sedatives pulling me down into a thick, suffocating darkness. The last thing I feel is Daniel’s hand—firm, possessive, and cold—closing around my arm as he pulls me toward the car, and the last thing I hear is the final, mocking echo of his voice.

“You’re finally coming home with me.”

Everything fades into black.

Chapter 26 – Samuel

The silence in the penthouse is no longer peaceful; it’s suffocating.

I pace the length of the living room, the polished floor cold beneath my boots. Every few seconds, I look at the wall clock, then at the heavy mahogany door, waiting for the sound of her key in the lock.

She should’ve been home an hour ago. She knows the rules. She knows that I need to know her location, and more than that, she knows I can’t breathe when she’s out there in the city, vulnerable, while I’m trapped here waiting.

I pull my phone out again, my thumb hovering over her contact. Ashley. I hit the button. My pulse thunders in my ears as I listen to the hollow, rhythmic ringing.

Pick up. Just pick up.

It goes to voicemail. Again.

I drop my hand, feeling a sharp, jagged spike of anxiety in my chest that I can’t hide. I’ve never been a man of fear, but this—the not knowing—it’s breaking me. My mind is already spiraling through every worst-case scenario, every dark alley, every shadow where someone might be watching her.

“Daddy?”

I spin around. Ethan is standing at the edge of the hallway, clutching his favorite stuffed toy. He looks small in the vast, dim room, his eyes wide and searching.

“Where’s Mommy?” he asks. “She promised she’d read to me tonight.”

The question hits me harder than a bullet. I don’t want him to see this—the way my hand is shaking, the way I can’t seem to stand still. I force a smile, though it feels like a mask made of lead, and I walk over to kneel in front of him. I place my hands on his shoulders, grounding myself in the physical reality of my son.

“Mommy got a little held up with work, bud,” I say, my voice sounding strained, even to my own ears. I reach out, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “She’s just finishing up a project. She’ll be home very soon. I promise.”

Ethan nods, his expression trusting, and leans his head against my chest. I hold him for a second longer than I should, closing my eyes, praying for the sound of the front door opening.