Page 18 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

But here, on the floor of my townhouse, buried under a pile of cushions and blankets, the CEO of Kang Logistics doesn’t exist. Here, I’m just Mommy. And Mommy is exactly who I want to be.

“Mommy, look!” Ethan suddenly wiggles out of my embrace, pointing his plastic dinosaur toward the opening of our cave. “The lava is gone. Now we have to build the tallest tower in the whole world.”

“The whole world?” I ask, crawling out from under the table behind him. “That’s going to take a lot of blocks.”

“We can do it!” he chirps, already scrambling over to his toy chest and dumping a massive pile of wooden building blocks onto the hardwood floor with a loud, chaotic clatter.

I sit cross-legged on the floor, fully throwing myself into his world. For the next two hours, we build towering structures only for Ethan to gleefully knock them down with his toy cars. I let him draft me into being the “construction worker” who hands him the perfect pieces, laughing as he bossily directs my movements with the seriousness of a seasoned foreman.

There’s an effortless, beautiful rhythm to our days together. It’s a life I built entirely from scratch, with my own hands, my own sweat, and my own tears. It hasn’t been easy—balancing the ruthless demands of a global shipping firm with the exhausting, beautiful reality of raising a child alone is a constant tightrope walk. There are nights when I’m so tired my bones ache.

But looking at Ethan’s bright, bubbling laughter as a tower of blocks crashes down, I know I wouldn’t trade a single second of it. We’re whole, just the two of us. This home, this laughter, this fierce and quiet peace—it’s mine. I earned it, and I protected it.

“Look, Mommy! It’s super tall!” Ethan squeals, balancing one final red block on top of a shaky tower that reaches his chest. He holds his hands up in victory, his face lit up with pure, untainted pride.

“It’s perfect, baby,” I say softly, a warmth spreading through my chest that completely drowns out the cold, lingering shadows of the boardroom.

No matter what storms are brewing outside these walls, no matter what ghosts from the past try to claw their way back in, I look at my son and know my fortress is secure. I will keep him safe. I’ll keep us safe. And nothing—absolutely nothing—is going to take this away from us.

A quiet tap at the front door breaks the lazy afternoon stillness.

“I’ll get it!” Ethan yells, immediately abandoning his block tower to race toward the hallway.

“Ethan, wait for Mommy!” I laugh, scrambling off the floor to catch him just as he reaches the door.

I peek through the peephole and relax, unlocking the deadbolt. Maya stands on the porch, a sleek leather folder tucked under one arm and a paper bag from our favorite local bakery dangling from her hand.

“Hi, little monster!” she chirps, immediately kneeling to give Ethan a high-five as she steps inside. “I brought those powdered donuts you like.”

“Donuts!” Ethan gasps, his eyes turning into saucers as he grabs the bag like it’s a prize and runs straight toward the kitchen.

“Don’t eat them all at once!” I call out after him, shaking my head. I turn to Maya, my gaze dropping to the leather folder in her hand. A faint, defensive tension immediately tightens in my shoulders. “Tell me that folder isn’t what I think it is. I thought we agreed I was off the clock today.”

“It’s the updated customs manifests for the Thursday shipment,” Maya says, holding it up with an apologetic wince. “The port authority in Athens changed their dock assignments, and we need your digital signature to authorize the bypass—”

“Maya,” I interrupt gently, letting out a long, tired sigh. I run a hand over my face, feeling the sudden, heavy weight of the corporate world trying to breach my sanctuary. “I can’t. Not right now. My brain is entirely fried, and if I look at another shipping coordinate or think about work for another second, I’m going to scream.”

Maya studies my face, her professional mask dropping instantly. She looks at the folder, then at me, taking in the soft oversized sweater I’m wearing, the slightly messy bun on my head, and the faint shadows under my eyes.

Without a word, she walks over to the kitchen island, sets the leather folder down, and pushes it to the very edge of the counter.

“Then it can wait until tomorrow morning,” she says, her tone shifting from efficient assistant to protective best friend. “The Greeks can wait. Thursday is still two days away.”

I let out a breath I feel like I’ve been holding since Monday, my shoulders dropping. “Thank you.”

“Come on,” Maya says, nudging my shoulder with hers as she heads toward the living room. “Let’s sit down. I’ll make us some tea. You look like you’ve been carrying the weight of the entire Atlantic Ocean on your back this week.”

Minutes later, we’re curled up on opposite ends of the sofa. Ethan is happily occupied in his blanket fort, quietly munching on a donut and whispering to his dinosaurs, leaving the two of us in a rare, peaceful bubble. Maya hands me a steaming mug of chamomile, her expression soft and grounded.

“You’ve been working yourself to the bone, Ash,” Maya says quietly, wrapping her hands around her own mug. “I know this new Rusnak contract is massive, and the logistics are a nightmare, but you need to breathe. You don’t have to carry the whole company by yourself.”

I stare down into the dark amber liquid of my tea, the warmth radiating through the ceramic and heating my palms. “Sometimes it feels like if I let go of the reins for even a second, the whole thing will fall apart. I’ve spent so long fighting to keep us afloat.”

“Hey.” Maya nudges my foot with hers, a soft, reminiscent smile touching her lips. “Look at me. Do you remember where we were seven years ago?”

A small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as the memory washes over me. “Drowning in cold coffee and unpaid invoices.”

“Exactly.” Maya laughs softly. “Seven years ago, you had just taken over a completely shattered, struggling family business. You didn’t even have an office. You were sitting in that drafty little corner booth at the cafe on 4th Street, surrounded by stacks of legal papers, looking like you wanted to cry but were too stubborn to let anyone see it.”