Page 10 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
One of the Russian men murmurs something in their language. I catch the words:patience,soon. I don’t dare translate unless asked.
My fingers grip the pen tighter. My chest aches. The Russian from the party doesn’t say anything, but his presence is a pressure behind my right shoulder. I imagine him reading my mind, seeing all the connections click into place—the party, the threats, the name Jenkins.
Chris Jenkins just keeps talking, thinking he’s winning. “You want our market share and our contacts. How about you give us season tickets at the Bolshoi? We can call it even,” he says, grinning.
A Russian, older, with silver at his temples, replies flatly in accented English, “We do not come here for theater, Mr. Jenkins. Only business.” His eyes flick toward me, just a second, then away.
The room tightens, the laughter fading to nothing. Jenkins doesn’t seem to notice, but I do.
I look at my watch, willing time to move faster. The conversation drones on, legal clauses stacking up. The Russian from the party finally speaks, his voice low and smooth.
“Ms. Whitaker, translate this section again for Mr. Ivanov. Ensure the language is clear.” There’s nothing in his tone, but when I look up to meet his gaze, my heart nearly stops. His eyes are the same as that night: glacier, cold, seeing straight through me.
I swallow. “Yes, of course.” My voice sounds steady, but my throat is raw. I repeat the clause in Russian, careful with every syllable, hands pressed hard to my notes so they won’t shake.
Ivanov nods once, satisfied. Jenkins rolls his eyes. “Jesus, can we get a drink in here? Feels like we’re negotiating with statues.”
One of the Americans, his tie askew, leans over to whisper, “Relax, Chris. We’re almost through.” I catch the Russian word for “idiot” tossed between two men on the other side.
I keep my head down, but my vision swims. I focus on the details: pages of contracts, the soft tick of the clock, the sharp sound of that Russian’s pen tapping against the table. I hear another Russian say quietly, “He talks too much.” Another grunts in agreement.
Jenkins barrels ahead, voice brash. “Tell your boss I expect him at the afterparty. I want to see if Russians can drink as hard as they negotiate.” He looks around for laughter, finds none.
A Russian leans in, murmuring something I know he thinks I won’t hear: “Better not expect him at breakfast.”
I nearly drop my pen.
I shove my notes into my bag, trying to breathe. I glance at the clock again. “Excuse me,” I say quietly, finding a gap as the lawyers bicker over a clause about indemnity. “I need to check something with our legal counsel.” My voice sounds small, but no one objects. They barely register me.
I stand, legs stiff. That Russian’s gaze follows me, heavy and silent. I keep my chin up, my steps measured, crossing the room like I belong here, even as my heart feels ready to burst out of my chest.
At the door, Jenkins calls after me, “Hey, Ms. Whitaker, bring me a real drink, will you?” He laughs at his own joke. “Kidding. Don’t tell HR.”
One of the Americans mutters, “Don’t mind him, Jessa.”
I force a polite smile and slip into the hallway. My hands are clammy on my bag, knees wobbly. I hit the elevator button three times before it lights up. The corridor feels endless.
A security guard strolls past, nodding at me. “Long meeting?” he asks.
I try to breathe. “Long day,” I answer, and somehow my voice sounds normal. The elevator doors open and I step inside, alone. The mirrored walls show a woman I barely recognize—hair tight, eyes huge, mouth set in a determined line.
The ride down is silent. My brain won’t stop replaying the words from that night in the garden, fitting them now around the cold professionalism of this room.
Blood. Jenkins. Before sunrise.
Sunrise when?
When the doors open, I hurry through the marble lobby. Outside, the city rush swallows me up. The cold hits my face, but it doesn’t help. I gulp air, desperate for calm, but there’s none to be found.
I turn down the street, pulling my coat tight around me. I walk fast, faster, passing shops and strangers. My phone buzzes, but it’s just a calendar alert.
I keep going, head down, weaving through crowds. My thoughts spiral—that party wasn’t a mistake. This meeting wasn’t coincidence. I’m not just a bystander; I’m a thread unraveling something they want to keep buried. Someone is going to notice soon.
Maybe they already have.
The wind slices through my coat, sharp and real, but nothing settles the panic buzzing in my veins. My heels click faster along the sidewalk as I put block after block between me and that building.
Every time I check over my shoulder, I half expect to see the Russian from the party—or one of his men—emerging from the crowd, eyes cold and unblinking.
