Page 6 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
He surveys the table, then sits without a word.
There’s a divide in the room that has nothing to do with language. The Americans claim one side of the table, the Russians the other. The air hums with unspoken tension. Every movement feels exaggerated: a pen tapped, a cough stifled, the click of a phone screen turned off and slipped into a pocket. I keep my hands still in my lap, posture straight, breath even.
I’m here to observe. Translate when asked. Write everything down. Don’t make myself part of anything.
A senior American—Mr. Evans, I think, though I won’t call him by name unless he calls me—takes the lead. “Thank you all for coming. We’ll keep this efficient. Ms. Whitaker will translate and record all key points for both sides.”
I nod, meeting his eyes for just a second. My voice is calm and clear. “Of course. I’ll provide neutral translation and written documentation for every clause, as contracted.”
There’s a brief pause, as if everyone is waiting for someone else to make the first real move. The Russian lead, the silver-haired man, speaks quietly. “We appreciate the discretion. We expect accuracy.”
His English is careful, but he gestures for me to translate into Russian anyway. I do so, matching his measured tone, letting the syllables roll out in a practiced cadence. He nods, satisfied.
The negotiations begin. I take notes, fingers moving quickly across the keys, translating every line aloud when needed, switching between languages as the men volley points back and forth. It’s familiar. Numbers, percentages, guarantees. Legal phrases in English, then Russian, then back again. No smiles, no jokes, not even any eye contact unless it’s absolutely necessary.
At the far end of the table, the Russians rarely speak above a murmur. The Americans lean forward, voices clipped. No one trusts anyone else, and the room feels colder for it.
I settle into the rhythm. Listen. Translate. Document. Don’t let your mind wander. Don’t think about that party, or about blue eyes, or about the strange tightness in your chest every time someone speaks Russian within earshot. This is just work. Routine.
I recognize one of the Russian associates: a heavyset man with a gold watch and a nose that’s been broken at least twice. I’ve seen him before, somewhere less formal. He glances at me once, expression unreadable, then returns to his silentobservation. I wonder if he remembers me, but I don’t let it show.
They negotiate a confidentiality clause. I translate. One American lawyer questions the scope. I relay the question, word for word. The Russians counter, adding two lines. I type, translate, recite, and document. I am a machine, careful and precise. No one looks at me twice.
Outside, taxis honk. The city hums beneath us, oblivious to the men inside these walls carving up pieces of its future. Sometimes I catch my reflection in the glass and see my shoulders straight, lips pressed in a neutral line, eyes focused but blank. I look like someone who belongs here. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Minutes turn to hours. Water glasses empty and are refilled. There are disagreements, corrections, calls for a break. I blend in, a part of the furniture, waiting for the next phrase to land.
Once or twice, I catch a flash of something familiar in a Russian phrase. A cadence, a turn of voice that triggers a memory I don’t want. I force myself to stay focused. This is work. This is safety. Here, I can control what happens next.
For a little while, the world outside disappears, and I am only what I need to be: invisible, unremarkable, indispensable, and—most of all—untouched by whatever darkness might be waiting at the door.
We’re waiting. The meeting is supposed to restart at noon, but the clock on the wall keeps ticking, and nobody has touched their coffee in fifteen minutes.
The Americans look impatient, checking their watches and glancing at the door every few seconds.
The Russians, by contrast, look unmoved, almost amused by the delay. One of them mutters something under his breath—too quiet for me to catch, but it sounds like an inside joke at the expense of the hosts.
I keep my head down, eyes fixed on my notepad. My handwriting is even and precise, just the way I practiced. There’s nothing to do but sit quietly, ready to translate the moment someone needs me. I know how to fade into the background, to wait out uncomfortable silences, to keep my nerves at bay. Boredom is a luxury. Boredom means nothing is going wrong.
The Americans begin to whisper among themselves, voices pitched low. I catch only fragments: something about a car stuck in traffic, someone’s security detail, how “he always does this.”
The name Chris Jenkins drifts across the table, spoken with the particular mixture of irritation and deference reserved for someone important and difficult.
Chris Jenkins. The words hang in my mind for a long moment before they click into place. The name the Russians were talking about at that party. My grip tightens on my pen, my pulse skipping a beat. For a second, I’m back on that balcony, the sound of Russian slicing through the night, the weight of eyes on my back. The memory sends a fresh wash of adrenaline through me, cold and sharp.
I force my expression to stay neutral, my posture relaxed. No one is looking at me, not really. I’m the translator, the notetaker, invisible by design. I keep my eyes down, jotting a few stray words just to keep my hands busy. Inside, my mind whirls.
Chris Jenkins.What are the odds?
Someone laughs too loudly, snapping me out of it. I glance up to see the Americans leaning in toward each other, cracking a nervous joke about the latecomer. The Russians are watching them, silent, faintly amused.
Then, the elevator chimes.
Everything goes still. The laughter cuts off. Every head turns toward the glass-walled entryway. I barely breathe as the elevator doors slide open, polished steel reflecting the city skyline. For a moment, the only sound is the hum of the HVAC system and the faint click of a pen somewhere across the table.
He walks in.
I recognize him before I see his face—something in the set of his shoulders, the way he moves with easy authority. Then he steps fully into the room, and my heart stops.
