Page 29 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

“Okay!” Ethan beams, completely oblivious to the invisible war raging above his head. He looks up at me, giving me a quick wave. “Bye, Samuel! Don’t forget the T-Rex tail!”

“I won’t, Captain,” I say, my voice softening as I watch him trot toward the main building.

The moment the office door clicks shut behind him, the mask drops. Ashley steps directly into my space, her eyes flashing with a lethal, unyielding rage.

“Don’t you ever do this again,” she hits me with a harsh, venomous whisper, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “You crossed a line, Samuel. Coming here, using my son, ambushing him at his school—it’s completely unacceptable. You don’t bring your chaotic, dangerous world near his sanctuary. Do you understand me?”

“I didn’t ambush anyone, Ashley,” I reply calmly, towering over her, refusing to let her anger push me back. “I spent the afternoon with my son. He asked to come out here.”

“We aren’t doing this here,” she cuts me off sharply, glancing toward the daycare windows where the receptionist is still watching us. She takes a slow, steadying breath, her chin lifting in absolute defiance. “We need to talk. Not in public, not on a playground, and absolutely not in front of Ethan.”

She steps closer, her voice dropping to a flat, deliberate register. “Come to my house tonight. Nine o’clock. The discussion will take place after Ethan is completely asleep. Do not be late.”

The invitation isn’t warm. It isn’t a concession or an olive branch. It’s a calculated, intentional summons to a battlefield—a boundary she’s setting on her own terms to protect our child from the fallout.

“I’ll be there,” I agree, my jaw clenching.

Ashley doesn’t offer another word, nor does she wait for my compliance. She turns on her heel and walks back toward the office to retrieve Ethan.

I stand alone on the edge of the playground, the damp afternoon air growing cold around me. I watch as she emerges from the building a moment later, holding Ethan’s hand, guiding him toward her car. I watch my son look back over his shoulder to find me one last time before they disappear into the traffic.

The lines have been drawn. Nine o’clock.

Chapter 15 – Ashley

The rhythmic, steady sound of my knife striking the wooden cutting board is the only thing keeping my hands from shaking.

Slice. Slice. Slice.

I focus entirely on the precise, clean cuts of the fresh basil, channeling every ounce of my mounting anxiety into the preparation of the meal. A simple, classic pasta—nothing overly elaborate, but comforting and structured. The kitchen is immaculate, every copper pan polished and in its place, the subtle aroma of garlic and olive oil warming the cool evening air.

Cooking has always been my therapy, my way of asserting order when the world around me threatens to spin out of control. Tonight, organizing this space is a necessity. It’s my armor. I refuse to let Samuel walk into a chaotic, tense environment that betrays my internal panic. I will meet him on my own terms, in a home that breathes stability, warmth, and absolute composure.

I dressed deliberately for the occasion. I swapped my stiff, corporate blazer for a soft, cream-colored knit sweater and a pair of dark tailored trousers. It is a calculated balance—casual enough to signal that this is my domestic sanctuary, yet elegant and structured enough to maintain a clear, professional boundary.

Upstairs, the quiet hum of the baby monitor sits on the kitchen island, showing the steady, reassuring rise and fall of Ethan’s chest as he sleeps. He was exhausted from his afternoon on the swings, drifting off before his head even hit the pillow.

At exactly nine o’clock, a firm, measured knock sounds at the door.

I take one deep, grounding breath, placing the knife down. I smooth the front of my sweater, walk down the hallway, and open the door.

Samuel stands on the porch, the soft porch light catching the sharp angles of his jaw. He has traded his damp tuxedo for a dark, form-fitting charcoal sweater and black trousers. He looks imposing, as always, but the raw, volatile edge from this afternoon is tightly locked away behind a calm, guarded expression.

“Ashley,” he says quietly.

“Samuel. Come in,” I reply, my voice even and polite as I step aside to let him enter. I lead him into the dining room, where the table is already set. “I made dinner. I figured we both had a long day, and it’s easier to talk over a meal.”

Samuel looks at the laid table, a subtle flicker of surprise passing through his blue eyes before he nods slowly. “Thank you. It smells incredible.”

We sit down opposite each other, the distance of the mahogany table acting as a physical barrier between us. As I serve the pasta, the interaction begins with an almost surreal calmness. There are no raised voices, no defensive barbs, and no icy glares. Instead, we fall into a quiet, neutral rhythm.

We discuss the weather, the upcoming maritime shipping schedule, and general industry logistics. We keep the conversation strictly professional, avoiding the elephant in the room with a delicate, unspoken agreement. For twenty minutes, we exist in a fragile pocket of temporary normalcy—two executive partners sharing a quiet dinner after a long day of operations.

But beneath the polite inquiries and the steady clink of silverware, the air is thick with static. We both know this peace is an illusion, a brief intermission before the real confrontation begins.

I set my fork down, the sharp clink of metal against porcelain ringing out like a starting gun. The illusion of normalcy shatters instantly. I rest my hands flat on the table, leaning forward slightly as I look Samuel dead in the eye.

“We need to talk about what happened today,” I say, my voice low and incredibly controlled, though my pulse is starting to race. “Showing up unannounced at Ethan’s daycare, bypassing his security list, and inserting yourself into his life without a single word to me is completely unacceptable, Samuel. I’m trying to handle this rationally, but you cannot pull a stunt like that ever again.”