Page 49 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

Every muscle in my body locks. The tenderness, the soft light, the lingering haze of our intimacy—it vanishes, incinerated in a heartbeat. The monster I had suppressed to be the husband she needed surges forward, cold, calculating, and lethal.

I don’t say a word. I don’t need to.

I roll off the bed, the movement fluid and silent. I don’t look at her, not because I don’t care, but because my mind has already left the room, dissecting the threat, calculating the angles, and tracing the path to the man who dared to violate the sanctity of my home and my bed.

I reach for my phone from my discarded jacket, my fingers dancing across the keys with deadly efficiency. I am already issuing orders.

“Samuel,” Ashley whispers, sitting up, the silk sheet pooling at her waist.

I turn to look at her, and she sees it—the shift. The man who whispered promises of protection in the dark is gone. In his place stands the head of the Rusnak empire, a man who has decided that mercy is no longer on the table.

“Go to sleep, Ashley,” I say, my voice devoid of the warmth from minutes ago, replaced by a razor-sharp, chilling focus. “I’m going to handle this.”

I walk toward the door, my strides long and purposeful. The wedding is over. The celebration is dead. I am no longer just guarding a perimeter; I am hunting. By the time the sun rises, I won’t just be reacting to the shadows—I will be tearing them down, one by one, until there is nowhere left for him to hide.

I step out of the suite, the heavy door clicking shut behind me, and the urgency of the war claims me once again.

Chapter 25 – Ashley

The hum of the office is a symphony I’ve missed. For the last few days, my life has been a blur of armored SUVs, clandestine ceremonies, and the suffocating, heavy air of the penthouse.

Here, sitting behind my desk, the world feels manageable. I have my spreadsheets, my emails, and the familiar, grounding clutter of my professional life. It is an illusion, perhaps, but it is one I desperately need to keep me from spiraling.

I am deep in the middle of finalizing a draft when Maya knocks, her head popping through the doorway.

“Ashley? You have a visitor. He says it’s a surprise, but he seemed…professional.”

I frown, checking my watch. I have no meetings on the books. Before I can ask for clarification, a familiar silhouette appears in the frame of the door.

My heart stutters, but it’s not from fear—it’s from genuine recognition.

“Daniel?”

He grins, leaning casually against the doorframe. He looks exactly as he did two years ago: effortlessly stylish, his hair perfectly tousled, wearing a soft gray sweater that highlights his lean, athletic build. Daniel was one of the first models I worked with in my early days in the industry, when I was just a freelancer trying to make a name for myself.

“Surprise,” he says, his voice as smooth and charming as I remember.

He walks into the office, his presence immediately lightening the tense, clinical atmosphere I’ve been living in. He holds up a familiar branded coffee cup from the café downstairs. “I heard you were back and had to stop by. I hope I’m not interrupting a major deadline.”

“Daniel, honestly, you’re interrupting a major state of confusion,” I laugh, the sound feeling surprisingly natural. I stand up and meet him halfway, accepting the coffee with a genuine smile. “I didn’t even know you were still in the country. How did you know where to find me?”

“I keep tabs on the best names in the game,” he says with a wink, pulling up a chair as if he’s been here a hundred times. “I saw your latest project rollout on social media. It’s brilliant, Ashley. Truly. I’ve been telling everyone that the industry is lucky to have you.”

We fall into a rhythm as easy as breathing. He asks about my recent work, shares a hilarious story about a disastrous runway show he did in Milan, and tells me about his move into photography. The conversation is refreshingly shallow, centered on creative projects and mutual acquaintances. It feels like a lifeline to the person I was before motherhood, and everything else consumed my reality.

For twenty minutes, I forget about the stalker. I forget about the chilling text message burning a hole in my phone. I forget about the guards stationed in the lobby downstairs.

“You look good, Ashley,” he says, leaning back, his expression turning thoughtful. “A little tired, maybe, but you’ve got that fire back. I always told you, you were destined for something bigger than just local commissions.”

“I’ve had a busy week,” I offer, giving him a guarded, polite smile.

“Clearly.” He stands up, his movements fluid. “You know, I’d love for us to hang out. Like old times,” he says, his voice casual. “I know a place just a few blocks over. It’s quiet, perfect for catching up. You’ve been working too hard, Ashley; you deserve an hour of sunlight.”

I hesitate, my hand gripping my bag. The rules—Samuel’s rules—echo in the back of my mind. Stay within the perimeter. Trust no one outside the circle. But Daniel isn’t a threat. He’s a friend. He’s the person I was before the terror began, and the idea of sitting in a crowded, brightly lit bistro for an hour feels like reclaiming a piece of my stolen life.

“Just an hour,” I concede, forcing a bright, professional smile. “I really do have a mountain of work to get back to.”

“An hour is all I need,” he promises.