Page 52 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

She hesitates but nods reluctantly. “All right.”

I lead her through the penthouse, my hand hovering near the small of her back but not quite touching. We stop outside a closed door, and I turn to face her. “Before we go in, I want you to know that I hear you. I understand your frustration and anger. This is my attempt to show you I’m committed to your dreams and to our future.”

Confusion flickers across her face. “What are you talking about?”

Instead of answering, I open the door and gesture for her to enter.

She steps inside, and I hear her sharp intake of breath. The room, once a spare bedroom, has been transformed into a state-of-the-art commercial kitchen. Gleaming stainless-steel appliances line the walls, and a massive island dominates the center of the space. Every surface sparkles under the warm lighting.

Phoebe moves through the kitchen, trailing her fingers over the countertops. She opens cabinets and drawers, each one stocked with top-of-the-line cookware and utensils. Her eyes widen as she takes in the pantry, filled with an array of Scottish ingredients—oatmeal, black pudding, smoked haddock, and more.

“Mikhail,” she whispers, turning to face me. “What is all this?”

I step closer, careful not to crowd her. “It’s for you. A place where you can practice your recipes and experiment with new ideas for your future shop. I know how much your Scottish heritage means to you, and I wanted to give you a space where you could explore that passion.”

For a moment, I see a flicker of the old sparkle in her eyes, and the joy that first drew me to her. It’s quickly masked, replaced by a guarded expression.

“This is...” She pauses, searching for words. “It’s incredible, but it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t erase the lies or the danger you’ve put me in.”

I nod, accepting her words. “I know. I don’t expect it to, but I hope it shows you I’m serious about supporting your dreams and building a future with you—if you’ll have me.”

Phoebe turns away, running her hand along the edge of the island. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” I say. “Just...use it. Create. Let this be a safe space for you, away from all the chaos.”

She’s silent for a long moment, and I hold my breath, waiting. Finally, she speaks. “Thank you, Mikhail. It’s thoughtful.”

I allow myself a small smile. It’s not yet forgiveness, but it’s a start. “Would you like me to leave you to explore?”

Phoebe nods, still not looking fully at me. “Yes, please. I... I need some time to process this.”

I move toward the door, pausing with my hand on the knob. “Phoebe?”

She looks up.

“I love you,” I say simply. “Whatever happens, whatever you decide, that won’t change.”

Before she can respond, I slip out of the room, closing the door softly behind me. My heart aches with the need to hold her, to make everything right, but I have to give her space to come to terms with everything in her own time.

I make my way back to my office, already shifting gears to the other pressing matters at hand. I pull out my encrypted laptop, bringing up the dossiers we’ve compiled on Valdés and his operation. Every weakness and every potential pressure point is laid out before me. As I study the information, a plan begins to form.

A knock at the door interrupts my concentration. “Come in,” I call out.

Nastya enters, her expression serious. “Mikhail, Phoebe’s asking for you.”

I stand immediately, my heart rate quickening. “Is everything all right?”

Nastya nods. “She seems calmer. She’s in the kitchen.”

I thank Nastya and make my way back to the newly renovated space, trying not to run in my urgency to be with her again. What does Phoebe want? Has the kitchen softened her stance, or is she preparing to deliver a final blow to our relationship?

I pause outside the door, taking a deep breath to center myself. Then I knock softly. “Phoebe? It’s Mikhail. May I come in?”

“Yes,” comes her reply, muffled through the door.

I enter, and the sight before me stops me in my tracks. Phoebe stands at the island, flour dusting her cheeks and hair. The kitchen is alive with the scent of baking. She looks up when I enter, and I’m struck by how at home she looks in this space.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, gesturing to the mess around her. “I needed to think, and this is how I think best.”

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