Page 74 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

I catch the popcorn she threw and eat it, grateful for her presence even though nothing she does can fill the space Nikandr left behind. The apartment feels smaller somehow, like I’ve outgrown it during my time at the estate. Everything here belongs to the version of me who thought her biggest problems involved choosing between Thai food and pizza for dinner.

“You know what we should really do?” Jessie continues, warming to her theme. “We should send him anonymous letters written in ransom-note style. Cut letters out of magazinesand spell out messages like ‘Your lies have consequences’ and ‘Honesty is sexy, but you wouldn’t know.’”

I smile. “That might actually scare him.”

She nods, and her coiffed updo doesn’t move. “Good. He should be scared. He should wake up every morning wondering if today’s the day his deception catches up with him.”

I miss him in ways that surprise me with their intensity. I miss the safety of his arms when I couldn’t sleep, the way he made my coffee in the mornings with exactly the right amount of cream, and those quiet moments when he’d rest his hand on my belly to feel the baby kick. I miss the way he’d read news articles aloud to me while I got ready in the morning, commenting on political developments with insights that made me understand how intelligent he really is.

Most of all, I miss the version of our future we planned together. The house with the garden, the nursery we were designing, and the life we were going to build away from violence and secrets all feel impossibly distant now, like ephemeral dreams ripped to shreds.

Nikandr has respected my request for space, which somehow makes everything worse. He’s made no forced visits, issued no command to return, or made angry phone calls demanding I come to my senses. Instead, there’s just silence punctuated by daily deliveries that arrive without explanation or accompanying notes.

Yesterday, it was a baby mobile with delicate wooden birds painted in soft pastels, making me think of the soft elephant mobile hanging in the nursery in his home. The craftmanship was exquisite, with tiny details carved into each bird’s feathers,and a musical mechanism that plays a lullaby. The day before, it was a cashmere blanket so soft it felt like holding a cloud, in the exact shade of cream I’d mentioned wanting for the nursery.

Today’s delivery was a box of pregnancy-safe tea blends and a book about preparing for natural childbirth. The tea selection included every flavor I’d tried and enjoyed during my time with him, plus several new ones with handwritten notes about their benefits for pregnancy symptoms. The book was a first edition, signed by the author, with several passages already highlighted in a color that matched the pen he always used for important documents.

Each gift makes my heart clench with longing and fury in equal measure. He’s trying to take care of me from a distance, showing me he remembers every small detail about my preferences and needs. It would be sweet if he hadn’t destroyed my trust by lying about something so fundamental to our relationship.

“Maybe I should send them back,” I say now, several hours after the latest delivery, while running my fingers over the spine of the childbirth book. The leather binding is soft and expensive, and I can smell the faint scent of his cologne clinging to the pages.

Jessie shakes her head. “Are you crazy? Keep the gifts and sell them online. Use the money to buy baby stuff from someone who doesn’t lie to you about secret military operations.”

I chuckle softly. “They weren’t military operations.”

“Potato, po-tah-to. The point is, he went behind your back to do something dangerous after promising he wouldn’t.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Besides, selling his guilt gifts would be perfect revenge. He spent all that time picking out meaningfulpresents, and you turn around and hawk them on eBay to strangers. It’s diabolical.”

I set aside the book and shift on the couch, trying to find a position that doesn’t put pressure on my lower back. At twenty-four weeks, without that amazing bed and super comfortable furniture at the Belov estate, everything hurts in new and creative ways, and the stress of the past week hasn’t helped with the discomfort. My ankles are swollen, my hips ache constantly, and I’ve developed a new appreciation for how difficult it is to get comfortable when there’s a tiny person using my ribcage as a jungle gym.

“I keep wondering if I overreacted,” I say quietly.

Jessie walks closer, hands on her hips as she stares at me with an expression that could freeze water. “You did not overreact. You set a very reasonable boundary about honesty in your relationship, and he trampled all over it the first chance he got.”

I sigh. “But what if he really was trying to protect me?”

“From what? From being worried about someone you love? From having a say in decisions that affect your future?” She stamps her foot, and the heel of her shoe clicking echoes through the quiet apartment. “Babe, protection that comes at the cost of your autonomy isn’t protection. It’s control dressed up in pretty words.”

Her bluntness cuts through the fog of confusion that’s been clouding my judgment for days. She’s right, and I know she’s right, but knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally are two different things entirely. “I still love him,” I whisper.

“I know you do. That’s what makes this so hard.” Jessie moves to sit beside me on the couch, careful not to wrinkle her dress, since she has to work tonight. She turns to face me fully. “Loving someone doesn’t mean accepting behavior that makes you feel unsafe or unheard.”

“What if I’m making a mistake? What if I’m throwing away something real because I’m too scared to trust him?” I blink back tears, not wanting to cry yet again. It feels like that’s all I’ve done for days.

“What if you’re protecting yourself and your daughter from a pattern of behavior that will only get worse over time?” She takes my hand and squeezes gently. “You don’t have to decide anything right now. You’re allowed to take as much time as you need to figure out what you want.”

The permission to be uncertain feels like a relief. I’ve been pressuring myself to have answers I don’t possess, so it feels nice to have a sort of permission to take a respite and just breathe. The baby chooses that moment to deliver a particularly strong kick to my ribs, making me wince and press my hand to my side. “My daughter has opinions about this conversation.”

“She’s probably telling you to dump his ass and move on with your life.”

I laugh, and it sounds a bit watery from the tears I’m suppressing, but I’m amused. “Or she’s telling me I’m being stubborn and should call him.”

“Babies don’t have that kind of judgment yet. She’s definitely on team ‘dump his ass.’”

I laugh again despite everything, grateful for Jessie’s ability to make me smile even when I want to cry. “I think I’ll take a bath. My back is killing me.”

“Want me to run it for you before I leave for work? I bought some of those fancy bath salts that are supposed to help with pregnancy aches.” She’s already standing before I can answer, heading toward the bathroom with purpose. “ I’ll light those candles you like, the ones that smell like vanilla and sandalwood.”

“That sounds perfect.”

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