Page 2 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
That’s what I’m supposed to do. Yet every time I glance sideways, I find his attention fixed anywhere but where I direct it.
His eyes don’t linger on brushstrokes or the delicate angles of sculpture. They skim over cameras hidden in ceiling corners, sweep across fire exits, track the subtle movements of staff adjusting wine glasses and velvet ropes. He catalogs every detail with the patience of a man who expects disaster at any moment. The meticulousness should feel flattering—like he cares about the safety of our event—but something about the intensity in his gaze makes my stomach tighten.
I keep talking, my words mechanical. “This room will host the preliminary exhibits before the auction begins. Guests will circulate here for cocktails. Lighting has been adjusted for optimal—”
“Two entrances,” he murmurs, almost to himself. His accent folds around the words, soft but noticeable. His eyes flick from one archway to the next, then to the large window framed by heavy drapes.
I pause, clipboard balanced against my chest. “Yes. Entrances. Convenient for flow… you’re casing the place like a security consultant.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression remains carved from stone, but for the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth as if he heard my sarcasm and filed it away.
My throat tightens. I quicken my pace, tugging him toward the next room, where a collection of mid-century pieces hangs under carefully adjusted spotlights. My voice feels thinner now, stretched too taut as I push through the rehearsed explanations.
He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t even ask questions. He only watches. Watches and notes and files everything away in silence.
The hush of his scrutiny follows me, even when I step several feet ahead. I can feel it on the back of my neck, prickling down my spine, as if he could see right through me. I remind myself sternly hat he’s nothing more than a donor. A wealthy, arrogant man who thinks his money entitles him to this air of ownership. Nothing else.
When we reach the central gallery, my voice falters despite myself. This is my favorite room, the one with ceilings so high the chandeliers look like they’re floating in their own sky.The art here is luminous, colors singing under glass, canvases breathing history.
Usually when I walk through this space, pride fills me. Today, with him at my shoulder, it feels different. Smaller. Like even beauty is something he can strip down into vulnerabilities.
I stop near a display case, forcing my voice to steady. “This is where the highest-profile pieces will be held until bidding closes. The security here is layered—”
His eyes sharpen on the case, on the locks, on the guard stationed by the far wall. “Layered,” he repeats, as though testing the word on his tongue.
I grip my clipboard harder. “Yes. Which means very difficult to tamper with. Which means you don’t need to worry.”
Still that silence, that watchfulness. He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t look convinced either.
By the time we circle back toward the main hall, my nerves are stretched raw. I’ve spent half an hour listing details I don’t think he even cared to hear, while his focus drifted everywhere else. My throat is dry, my palms damp against the smooth cardboard of my notes.
He slows near the entrance, gaze sweeping once more across the staff preparing champagne flutes. His presence radiates control, as if this entire gallery belongs to him now and we are all simply tolerated guests in his domain.
“Will you be attending the auction tonight?” I ask, sharper than I intend.
His eyes cut to mine. A long moment passes, weighted with something unreadable. Then, finally, he inclines his head. “Perhaps.”
I draw in a breath and force a polite smile, though it feels brittle at the edges. “Then I’ll see you tonight at the auction.” Myvoice is smooth, professional, but the words stick to the roof of my mouth.
I turn and lead him back toward the entrance, every step echoing louder than it should. Staff continue their preparations around us, but I barely register their movements.
My awareness is trained on him—the way his stride matches mine without effort, how his presence fills the corridor so completely that it feels as though the gallery itself tilts toward him.
The glass doors loom ahead, sunlight breaking through the storm clouds for a moment, painting the floor in fractured gold. I stop short of the threshold and gesture toward the exit, my clipboard pressed against my chest like a shield.
“Thank you for coming by, Mr. Sharov. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
He doesn’t reply immediately. His gaze holds me for one last, cutting second, like he’s memorizing something I don’t realize I’ve given away. Then he turns. His suit shifts with the motion, sharp and clean, and the doors open with the faintest sigh of hinges.
He walks out without hesitation, without a backward glance, vanishing into the gray light as though he was never really here at all.
The silence he leaves behind is deafening.
I stand there longer than I should, clipboard slack in my hands, staring at the doors as they swing shut. My chest feels too tight, my lungs refusing to fill properly. The world starts to move again around me—staff bustling with trays, the low hum of conversations resuming—but I can’t shake the strange void he’s left in the air.
I tell myself it’s relief. Of course it is. He was disruptive, distracting, unsettling in a way that made every nerve in my body hum. With him gone, I should be able to think again, to focus on the endless checklist waiting to be tackled before guests arrive tonight.
Yet relief isn’t what coils in my stomach.
