Page 27 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

She pulls back to look at me, her hands on my shoulders. “How do you feel about that?”

“Terrified. Overwhelmed. But also...” I search for the right words. “Also strangely happy? Is that crazy?”

“It’s not crazy. It’s human.” She guides me toward the exit, her arm around my waist like she’s afraid I might collapse. “What do you want to do?”

“I’m keeping it.” The certainty in my voice clearly surprises her. “I’m going to be a mother.”

We sit in her car in the clinic parking lot for almost an hour, talking through the practical implications of what this means, including doctor appointments, prenatal care, and maternity leave from the club, which will unofficially begin when I start showing. They can’t fire me for being pregnant, but it’s an unwritten rule at the club. No one wants to be served drinks by a pregnant woman.

I can probably eke out a few weeks or months working in the kitchen or cleaning the club but that will mean no tips and reduced income. How am I going to afford a baby on a cocktail waitress salary, assuming I can return when he or she is born? How am I going to manage childcare? I don’t have answers, except to one question. “No,” I say firmly when she asks if I plan to tell the father.

She frowns. “Don’t you think he has a right to know?”

That’s a question I’ve been dreading. I stare out the windshield at the busy street beyond the parking lot, watching normal people live their normal lives while my world shifts on its axis. “It’s complicated.”

“How complicated can it be? You call him, you tell him, and then you figure out what kind of role he wants to play.”

I turn to face her, and something in my expression must give away the magnitude of what I’m not telling her because her face goes pale.

“Sabrina, who is this man?”

The whole story wants to come pouring out—the kidnapping, the mistaken identity, the safehouse, and the way he made me feel like I was the most important thing in his world before sending me away like I was nothing, but I can’t tell her any of that without putting her in danger and dragging her into something she could never understand.

Instead, I tell her a version of the truth that skips the most dangerous parts. “His name is Nikandr. He’s...wealthy. Powerful. The kind of man who solves problems in ways that most people can’t imagine.”

She frowns. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’s not safe. It means the world he lives in is violent and unpredictable, and I don’t want my child anywhere near it.”

“But if he’s the father?—”

“He doesn’t know I’m pregnant, and I’m not going to tell him.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “This child is mine. I’m going to raise it alone, and that’s final.”

Jessie studies my face for a long moment, and I can see her weighing whether to push for more information or accept what I’m willing to share. “What aren’t you telling me?” she asks finally.

“Nothing that you need to know.”

“Sabrina—”

“Please.” I reach over and take her hand. “I know this doesn’t make sense from the outside, but I need you to trust me on this. I can’t contact him. I won’t contact him. This baby is going to be better off without him in our lives.”

The words hurt to say because part of me remembers the gentleness in his touch, and the way he whispered my name like it meant something, but I also remember the coldness in his voice when he told me to leave, and the casual way he mentioned making police reports disappear, conveying the understanding that his world operates by rules I could never comprehend.

A child changes everything. A child needs stability, safety, and predictability, which are all things Nikandr’s life lacks.

Jessie squeezes my hand. “Whatever you decide, you won’t face it alone. If you want to terminate, I’ll be with you at the clinic. If you want to raise this baby without the father, you’ll have support. Love. Family.”

The word ‘family’ breaks something loose in my chest, and tears start to flow. “I’m scared.”

“Of course you’re scared. You’re twenty-six years old, you work at a nightclub, and you’re about to become a single mother. Being scared is rational.”

I sniffle and wipe my face with the back of my hands. “What if I’m not good at it? What if I screw this up?”

“Then you’ll figure it out as you go, like every other parent in the history of the world.” She starts the car and begins backing out of the parking space. “First things first though. We need to get yousome prenatal vitamins and figure out how to tell Maya you’re going to need more flexibility in your schedule.”

The practical concerns feel overwhelming, but they’re also grounding. Doctor appointments I can schedule. Vitamins I can take. Work accommodations I can negotiate even if it means taking a pay cut from the time I’m showing until a couple of weeks after the baby is born. The thought of returning to work so quickly sends a pang through me, but I have to be realistic. I won’t be able to take much more time than that. Still, these are problems with solutions, unlike the complicated mess of feelings I have about Nikandr.

“What about when people ask about the father?” I ask as we drive home.

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