Page 1 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
Chapter One - Karmia
The cursor blinks back at me one last time before I hitlog out. The company logo flashes, blue and sterile, before dissolving into nothing. My badge is already unclipped, a flimsy rectangle of plastic I slide onto the desk with deliberate care. Goodbye, corporate leash.
I let my eyes linger a moment longer than necessary, soaking in the rows of cubicles, the humming lights, the faint smell of burned coffee wafting from the break room. Four years of my life bottled up in recycled air and fluorescent glare. For a second, I can almost convince myself I’ll miss it. Almost.
“Hey, Mia!”
I turn, and there’s Jordan leaning against the doorway to the neighboring department, tie crooked, grin sharp. He’s got that look he always gets when he’s winding up to say something stupid.
“You’re really doing it, huh? Finally escaping the corporate prison.” He raises his hands in mock salute. “Free woman. No more soul-sucking status meetings, no more ‘urgent’ Friday-night emails. Must feel like winning the lottery.”
“Or parole,” I shoot back, sliding my laptop into its case. “Depends on who you ask.”
He laughs, the sound bright enough to cut through the heavy air of the office. Jordan’s good at that—turning the dull into something almost tolerable.
“You’ll miss me, though,” he teases.
I arch a brow. “Sure. Like I’d miss a toothache.”
He clutches at his chest, wounded. “Cold. Heartless. Remind me never to defend your honor.”
Our banter ricochets between us, light, practiced, easy. It’s grounding, and for a flicker of a moment I feel steady, tethered to something warm. When he finally pulls me into a quick, lopsided hug, I let myself lean in for half a heartbeat before pulling back.
“Go on,” he says, waving me toward the exit. “Before they chain you to a desk again.”
I flash him a grin, all bravado, and step out into the late-afternoon sun. The city swallows me whole, horns and chatter mixing with the burn of exhaust.
By the time I reach my apartment, the mask of office normalcy has already peeled away.
The heels come off first, kicked into the corner without ceremony. Stockings next, balled up and abandoned in the hall. I pad barefoot to the spare room that long ago stopped being a guest bedroom and started being mine.
The door creaks open to reveal my sanctuary: a half-lit cave of glowing monitors, cables snaking across the floor like restless vipers, the steady hum of machinery filling the silence. Energy drink cans crowd the desk, relics of late nights and impossible deadlines. It smells faintly of ozone and sugar. Home.
Dropping into my chair, I let my shoulders relax for the first time today. Freelance. The word still tastes new, reckless,dangerous. No boss. No clock to punch. My career, my rules. For once, I get to decide who I work for and what’s worth my time.
The thrill coils low in my stomach, an electric charge I can’t shake.
I crack open a fresh can, the hiss loud in the room, and boot up my private server. The system purrs awake, screen after screen flooding with familiar code. My pulse matches its rhythm, quickening.
Then it happens.
A new message slides into the secure inbox, the notification a subtle chime I almost ignore. The sender is buried in layers of proxy addresses, masked so thoroughly it makes my brows knit. The body of the message is short. Direct.
One job. One night. Complete anonymity. Payout upon delivery: $250,000.
I stare. Refresh. Stare again.
It isn’t a request; it’s an order dressed up as opportunity. The attachment outlines the task in cold, precise language. Breach a particular firewall, extract a package of data, return it through an encrypted channel. Nothing more.
It should make me cautious. No, it does make me cautious. Every red flag in my body waves furiously, screaming that no client drops this kind of money for an easy job. That anonymity this perfect is less a safety net than a noose waiting to tighten.
The numbers glow on the screen, impossible to ignore.
Several year’s salary for one night’s work.
I rub my temples, pacing the tiny strip of floor between chair and door. Risks. Benefits. Every decision a calculation. Still—curiosity gnaws at me, sharp and unrelenting. What kind ofsystem hides behind pay like this? Who trusts a stranger enough to put this much cash on the line?
The click of my mouse seals it. I’m in.
