Page 21 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

“No,” she says.

There’s no hesitation. No pause to consider it, no polite softening of the syllable. The rejection is immediate, clear, and completely unambiguous, reinforcing the invisible, steel-plated boundary she has erected between us.

“I don’t drink with clients, Mr. Rusnak. And I certainly don’t drink with you.”

The flat dismissal sparks something hot and volatile in my chest. The cool, calculated businessman slips, and the raw, untamed edge of the man beneath takes over.

“Why are you doing this?” I demand, my voice hardening as the tension between us escalates, vibrating in the narrow space separating us. “Why the act? You and I both know what happened four years ago wasn’t just some meaningless lapse in judgment.”

“It was a mistake,” she snaps, her eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous fire. “A mistake I paid for and moved past.”

“I don’t believe you,” I say, stepping fully into her space, towering over her, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. “And frankly, I don’t understand it myself. I don’t understand my own reaction to you, Ashley.”

She freezes, her dark eyes locking onto mine, searching my face.

“I’ve spent the last four years of my life deliberately avoiding relationships,” I admit, the confession ripping from my throat, raw and unpolished. “I don’t do attachments. I don’t do feelings. I live a life where everything is controlled, where everyone has a place and a purpose. Yet you walk into my path again, and you disrupt every single bit of that control. I can’t explain it, and I sure as hell don’t like it. But it’s there.”

Ashley stares at me, her chest rising and falling in sharp, rapid breaths. For a second, just a fraction of a second, I think I see a flicker of something soft in her eyes—a ghost of the girl from the penthouse.

But then her jaw sets, and she rejects the statement entirely, her face hardening back into a flawless, icy mask.

“I don’t care, Samuel,” she says, her voice cold, flat, and devastatingly calm. “Whatever you think you feel, whatever disruption you’re dealing with, it’s completely irrelevant to me.”

She takes a step back, breaking the proximity, her dark eyes pinning me to the floor.

“I do not want you,” she says, each word delivered with a terrifying, absolute certainty. “Not now. Not tomorrow. Not in the future. I want nothing to do with you outside of the coordinates of your cargo. Do not speak to me like this again.”

Her tone is firm, leaving absolutely no room for misinterpretation, no room for negotiation, and no room for hope.

Without waiting for me to breathe, she turns on her heel and walks away. Her emerald gown sweeps across the polished marble, her head held high as she melts seamlessly back into the sea of glittering elite, leaving me standing completely alone under the blinding light of the chandeliers, staring at the empty space where she used to be.

Chapter 11 – Ashley

The gentle yellow glow of the living room lamp casts a warm, peaceful light over the rug, sealing out the cold, rainy Tuesday evening that hammers against the windowpanes.

“One more page, Mommy? Please?”

Ethan looks up at me from his nest of plush pillows, his wide blue eyes blinking sleepily as he hugs his favorite worn-out teddy bear to his chest. He’s already dressed in his dinosaur-print pajamas, his small body warm and heavy where it’s tucked securely against my side on the sofa.

“Just one,” I whisper, turning the page of his picture book with a soft smile. “And then it’s straight to sleep, Captain. We have a big day tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, his thumb drifting toward his mouth as he rests his head against my shoulder.

I rest my chin on his soft hair, taking a slow, deep breath, letting the familiar, comforting scent of baby lotion and clean laundry wash over me.

It’s been three days since the maritime gala—three days since I stood in that suffocatingly grand ballroom and tore Samuel Rusnak’s pride to absolute shreds.

Since that night, the silence from his end has been deafening. There have been no more unexpected confrontations, no lingering looks, and no threatening texts from unknown numbers. Just the quiet, efficient execution of our contract logistics through Kaplan and Maya.

Here, within the quiet sanctuary of our townhouse, the chilling dread that has plagued me for a week finally begins to dissolve. The air in this room is light. It’s safe.

Looking down at my son’s peaceful face, the boundaries of my world feel solid and unshakeable once more. I have built this life brick by brick, entirely structured to protect him, entirely separate from the brutal, chaotic underworld Samuel represents. The Rusnak name might carry the weight of a ruthless empire out there on the streets, but inside these four walls, it has no power.

We’re safe. I’m in control.

“The end,” I whisper, closing the book with a quiet tap.

I press a soft kiss to Ethan’s forehead, watching his eyes flutter shut as he drifts off, completely protected by the fortress I have built to keep the monsters away.