Page 20 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

“It’s nothing,” I say, though my heart is beating a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I slide the phone face down on the coffee table, trying to force my voice back into its calm, clinical register. “It’s probably just a spam text, or some idiot trying to provoke a reaction. A pathetic attempt at mind games.”

“No, Ashley, look at the phrasing,” Maya insists, her voice rising slightly with genuine worry. “That’s not a generic spam bot. That is highly targeted, and it’s incredibly unsettling. You’re a high-profile female CEO. You can’t just brush this off. This is the kind of behavior that escalates if you ignore it. We need to have security track the IP address of that number immediately.”

“Maya, please, let it go,” I say, though a cold dread is already pooling deep in my stomach. I try to downplay it, desperate to keep the panic from showing on my face. “It’s strange, yes, but it’s not an immediate threat. I’m not going to let some anonymous coward dictate my peace of mind. We have tight security at the office and here. I’m safe. I don’t want to expose Ethan to the public eye.”

Maya stares at me, clearly unsatisfied with my response, but she respects me enough not to push further. “Just…promise me you’ll keep your guard up. Please.”

“I promise,” I murmur.

But as I look over at the blanket fort, watching my son happily playing in his own little world, the message burns a hole in my mind. The tension hangs heavily in the quiet room, a silent, invisible threat creeping closer to my fortress, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Chapter 10 – Samuel

The grand ballroom of the glass-and-marble gallery on the waterfront is a spectacle of blinding luxury. Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen waterfalls from thirty-foot ceilings, casting fractured, glittering light over a sea of tailored tuxedoes, silk gowns, and diamond necklaces. This is the annual maritime logistics gala—the playground of old money, cutthroat shippers, and the elite who control the physical arteries of global trade.

It’s exactly the kind of sterile, high-end environment where Ashley and I first crossed paths in this city. But tonight, everything is different.

I stand near the towering arched windows overlooking the dark, whispering harbor, a heavy tumbler of bourbon resting easily in my palm. I don’t wear my sunglasses or my casual leathers tonight; I am wrapped in a bespoke, midnight-blue Tom Ford tuxedo, the silk lapels catching the light, my white shirt pristine against the dark tan of my neck. Beside me, Kaplan is quietly exchanging nods with a port director from Trieste, but my focus is entirely elsewhere.

My eyes are locked onto the center of the room.

Ashley is a vision. She’s wearing a liquid-emerald silk gown that clings to the curve of her waist before pooling elegantly around her high heels. Her dark hair is swept up, revealing the delicate line of her neck and the sharp, regal angle of her jaw. She is fully immersed in her element. I watch her charm a group of elderly European shipbuilders, her laughter light and musical, though I can see the sharp, calculating assessment behind her eyes.

She’s a queen surveyor of her empire. And I’m a predator watching from the shadows.

“She’s pulling the room,” Kaplan murmurs, not looking at me but tracking my gaze. “Don’t do anything stupid, Samuel. The Greeks are watching.”

“I’m simply going to congratulate our partner on her successful quarter,” I reply, my voice a low, gravelly purr.

I set my bourbon down on a passing silver tray and glide into the crowd. The sea of elite guests seems to part instinctively for me, my height and the quiet, dangerous aura I carry warning them to step aside.

I wait until the shipbuilders excuse themselves before I make my move. I step into her space, my shadow falling over her small frame as I close the distance, stopping close enough to catch the faint, intoxicating scent of jasmine and rain that clings to her skin.

“You dominate a ballroom just as easily as a boardroom, Ms. Kang,” I say, my deep voice dropping to a low, intimate register that vibrates between us, deliberately cutting through the swell of classical violin music.

Ashley stiffens, her shoulders squaring instantly beneath the emerald silk. She doesn’t flinch, but as she turns to face me, her dark eyes flash with a sudden, fierce heat. The polite, glowing smile she had for the shipbuilders vanishes, replaced by a cool, impenetrable mask of executive detachment.

“Mr. Rusnak,” she says, her voice smooth and entirely professional, though her eyes are glittering with warning. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. I assumed you would be busy managing your…high-value shipments.”

“My shipments are in excellent hands,” I say, leaning in just a fraction of an inch, letting a slow, deliberate smile play on my lips. It is a provocation, a soft testing of her boundaries, attempting to spark even a flicker of the old, breathless connection we once shared. “And besides, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see how my doubled rate is being spent. The emerald suits you, krasavitsa. It makes you look like a prize.”

I watch her closely, waiting for the split-second hitch in her breath, the widening of her eyes, the crack in her fortress.

But Ashley has spent four years building her armor, and tonight, she’s impenetrable.

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t flush. She simply tilts her head up, meeting my piercing blue gaze with a look of supreme, icy indifference.

“My rates are spent on maintaining the flawless security and discretion you contracted, Mr. Rusnak,” she counters, her voice hard as diamonds and completely devoid of any reciprocal warmth. “If you’re looking for a prize, I suggest you try the silent auction in the West Wing. My time, and my presence, are strictly professional. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have actual clients to attend to.”

Without waiting for a response, she takes a step to bypass me, her silk gown brushing against my trousers.

I step into her path, blocking her exit with my broad frame. “Still so eager to run away, Ashley? I thought we established a partnership.”

“We established a business agreement,” she corrects sharply, her voice quiet but lethal as she glares up at me. “Do not mistake my compliance in a contract for an invitation to cross boundaries. I suggested you keep your head down and stay out of my way. I highly recommend you start practicing.”

I take a slow step closer, narrowing the gap between us until the hem of her emerald gown brushes against my leather shoes.

“Let me buy you a drink, Ashley,” I say, my voice dropping to a low, rough murmur. “For old times’ sake. Let’s start over. Just a drink.”