Page 1 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
Chapter One - Jessa
It starts with the champagne—a watery, metallic mouthful that burns my empty stomach. I swirl the glass anyway, tilting it so the bubbles catch the light, pretending I have any idea what I’m doing.
Somewhere across the ballroom, Vivienne’s laughter peals over the crowd. She fits here, with her careful blowout and high heels, balancing a plate of caviar like she’s done this a thousand times.
I hover in her orbit, a moon spinning just close enough not to fall away completely.
The room aches with money. Marble floors, carved crown molding, gold leaf curling across doorframes. It’s all too much, too ornate, the kind of beauty that leaves you cold instead of warm.
Everywhere I look, people in suits and silk glide past one another, offering those tight, carnivorous smiles I’ve only seen on TV. There’s a practiced ease to the way they move, as if everyone’s been coached on how to exist in these glittering spaces. I stand by the window, glass pressed to my lips, pretending I’m invisible.
I tug at the hem of my skirt, careful not to spill. Combat boots and florals are my armor, even when I try to dress up. My leather jacket hangs heavy on my shoulders, somehow both a comfort and a warning. Vivienne insisted I leave it at coat check, but I ignored her. I need something that’s mine.
Her voice snakes through the crowd, searching for me. “Jess! You have to try these shrimp, they’re, like, illegal good.” She flashes a smile that could win elections, sliding between ahedge fund manager and his dripping wife as if she was born here.
I lift my glass in silent salute. “I’m pacing myself. Don’t want to get sick,” I call back, letting her laughter mask my nerves.
She rolls her eyes and disappears into a knot of beautiful people, leaving me pressed against the window.
Through the glass, the city shimmers. Manhattan after dark is all chrome and possibility, the pulse of yellow taxis and streetlights so far below they don’t feel real. I’d rather be out there, camera in hand, chasing something messy and true. Instead, I’m marooned in this palace of glass and gold, balancing on the edge of a world that doesn’t want me.
A waiter offers a tray, and I take another flute, thanking him too loudly. My fingers tremble as I bring it to my lips. I wonder if anyone notices, if my cheap perfume gives me away. My heart races for no reason at all.
A woman nearby clinks her glass against her husband’s. Their laughter is brittle, brittle enough that I imagine it shattering if I touched it. Their eyes flick over me: curious, dismissive, bored. I duck my head and pretend to check my phone. No messages. No new emails. Just a reminder that my rent is due, and the last photo job barely paid enough for groceries.
Vivienne’s heels click as she circles back. “God, you look like you’re about to bolt.”
“Don’t tempt me.” I sip my champagne, faking confidence. “How do you know all these people again?”
“My cousin’s husband’s firm is throwing the party. Or his boss, or something. I dunno. There’s an open bar, and that’s what matters.” She leans in, eyes glittering. “Come on, live a little. I promise they’re harmless. Rich, but harmless.”
I want to believe her. I want to believe that behind every sleek suit and string of pearls, there’s something soft. I’ve spent my life reading rooms, memorizing exits, staying small enough to vanish when the mood turns. Old habits die hard.
“Give me five more minutes, then I’ll brave the sharks,” I say, flashing her my best fake smile.
She grins and disappears, lost in a sea of old money.
Alone again, I drift toward the back balcony. The music thumps. It’s a live band, the kind you hire when you want to prove you don’t care about the cost. Every note echoes through the halls, too loud, too bright. My head aches.
The crowd thins near the French doors, so I slip outside, drawing in a lungful of sharp, autumn air. The garden glows, spotlights catching on marble statues and manicured hedges. Everything smells of roses and wet earth, rich and cloying.
From here, the house looks almost unreal. Pillars rising against the sky, windows shining with a hundred reflections of a life I can’t imagine. I let myself breathe. Let the chill bite through the haze of cheap champagne and borrowed bravado.
Inside, laughter swells and fades. Someone tells a joke that makes the chandelier shudder. I wonder who lives here, if they ever feel lost in all this space. I press my forehead to the cool glass of the door, letting my eyes flutter closed.
A voice nearby—low, clipped, speaking Russian. The hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end. I know I shouldn’t listen, shouldn’t let curiosity get the better of me.
I’m a translator by trade; languages call to me, sharp and intimate. The words slip through the dark, a secret not meant for me.
I freeze, heart rattling against my ribs. The voices drift closer, murmuring names I don’t recognize—one of them cold, the other sharp, both heavy with warning. I recognize a phrase:blood, sunrise, disappear.
I stay perfectly still, caught between running and listening, every nerve stretched tight. My breath fogs the glass, and I will myself to shrink smaller, to vanish into the night.
Their footsteps fade, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. I tell myself it’s nothing. Rich people problems. Private dramas I can’t begin to understand. Still, the words coil around my spine, cold and bright, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve stumbled into something I was never meant to hear.
My phone buzzes. Vivienne again:WHERE DID YOU GO?
I type back:Balcony. Needed air.
