Page 1 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
Chapter One - Annie
The morning of the charity auction unravels, and everything goes wrong.
First, the florist calls to say the delivery van broke down, and the centerpieces are sitting in the back of a truck halfway across the city.
Ten minutes later, one of the caterers storms out of the kitchen, apron balled up in her fists, cursing about unpaid overtime. The weather forecast doesn’t help either; a coastal storm is brewing fast, threatening to ground flights and keep our richest donors trapped in their penthouses instead of writing checks for sick children.
I’m darting between the storage rooms and the main hall with a clipboard in one hand, phone in the other, hair falling loose from the bun I stabbed together at dawn. The heels I wore to look “professional” are already murdering my arches. If one more intern asks me where the bathroom is, I might set something on fire.
By noon, my stress has calcified into a dull throb behind my eyes. I’ve barely convinced the replacement caterer to staywhen Dana, the gallery manager, hurries toward me. Her usually neat bob is frazzled around the edges, her lipstick smudged.
“Annie,” she pants, tugging at the sleeve of my oversized blazer. “We’ve had word—an important Russian donor will be making a surprise visit before the event starts. He’s already on his way.”
I nearly laugh. “Perfect, because what we really need right now is some mysterious oligarch breathing down our necks.”
Her frown deepens. “Be polite. He’s… significant.”
“Significant doesn’t schedule appointments through smoke signals?” I mutter, but she’s already bustling away to adjust her pearls.
My stomach knots. I’ve worked here long enough to know that “important” usually means arrogant, entitled, and ready to treat the staff like they’re invisible. I square my shoulders and shove the clipboard against my chest, reminding myself I’m not here to bow and scrape. My job is to make sure the auction runs smoothly, not babysit the ego of some shadowy donor who thinks rules don’t apply to him.
Still, irritation prickles under my skin as I scan the gallery. Staff hustle between pedestals and display walls, adjusting lighting, setting up velvet ropes. The storm outside deepens the light inside, the windows silvered with drizzle.
Every detail matters tonight. Every flaw could be the thing the press notices instead of the art.
The front doors open.
I don’t hear them so much as feel them; a hush ripples across the room, people instinctively pausing, shoulders straightening as if bracing for inspection.
He walks in like he owns the place.
Tall—impossibly tall—broad-shouldered in a tailored black suit that doesn’t scream fashion so much as authority. His movements are slow but precise, the kind of control you don’t fake. The pale light catches on his clean-shaven jaw, the sharp line of his mouth. His eyes sweep the gallery, cool and deliberate, and it’s like the temperature drops a few degrees in his wake.
I catch myself staring, heart ticking faster than it should. I shake it off. He’s just a man in a suit. A donor with too much money and not enough manners. Except the staff seem to part for him automatically, stepping aside as though they’re afraid he’ll cut through them otherwise.
He doesn’t notice the art. Not the Monet on loan, not the priceless sculptures. His gaze skims past the walls and locks on exits, on staff movements, on the discreet cameras tucked into corners. It’s unsettling, and I hate that I notice it.
I force my voice steady. “You must be the mysterious benefactor we weren’t expecting.”
He turns toward me, gaze landing with the weight of a spotlight. Up close, his presence is even heavier, as though the space bends around him. I lift my chin and extend my hand, clipboard clutched against my ribs. “Annie Vale. Assistant coordinator.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then his hand engulfs mine—cool, firm, brief. “Dimitri Sharov.” His accent is faint, the consonants softened but unmistakably Russian.
“Mr. Sharov,” I say, slipping my hand back quickly. “Normally donors let us know when they plan to arrive. Helps us keep the chaos to a minimum.”
His expression doesn’t shift. “It’s a public place, guests rarely need permission.” His voice is low, even, and so calm it feels like a warning.
Heat climbs my neck. I shouldn’t poke the bear, not when the night is already a disaster waiting to happen, but something in me bristles at the quiet arrogance. “Some of us like order. It keeps things from falling apart.”
His eyes hold mine for a beat too long, unreadable. “Order is fragile.”
The words hang between us, sharp and precise. My mouth opens, then shuts again. Around us, staff keep moving, pretending not to notice the tension knotting the air. I grip the clipboard harder, nails biting into the cardboard back.
He glances toward the nearest hallway, as though dismissing me entirely. Irritation flares hot in my chest. I should let him wander, let him critique the emergency exits to his heart’s content. Except if Dana sees me ignoring him, I’ll never hear the end of it.
I exhale slowly. “Fine. I’ll walk you through the gallery.”
My heels click against the polished marble, echoing too loud in my own ears as I lead him deeper into the gallery. I tell myself to focus on the routine: highlight the featured pieces, explain the flow of the evening, keep my tone professional.
