Chapter 21 - Abram
The leather seat creaks as I shift, my fingers brushing the velvet box in my pocket. Zara's lilting giggle fills the car, a sound that still makes my heart race even after all this time.
Although, my heart’s been racing since we exited the house.
"Where are we going, Abram?" she asks, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You know I can't stand surprises."
I smirk, trying to mask my nerves. "Patience, my love.”
The city lights blur past us, casting a golden glow on Zara's porcelain skin. I drink in the sight of her, marveling at how this angel ended up with a devil like me. The ring burns in my pocket, a promise of forever.
"At least give me a hint," she pouts, her full lips tempting me.
I lean in close, my breath hot on her ear. "Let's just say it's a night you won't forget. You deserve it, after all. Besides, we’ve been living together for a month, and we haven’t had a single night out on the town. I thought we should spice things up."
As we pull up to the restaurant, doubt creeps in. It's just a restaurant, nothing special. Not nearly grand enough for what I have planned. Suddenly, I realize how foolish this is. I’m taking her out to dinner and plan to propose.
Over a meal?
It doesn’t feel right. For her, I should have brought out the fireworks.
But another part of me wonders if it’s just nerves making me back off. Not that I don’t wish to marry her, but because I don’t know if she’d find it too soon for me to have asked.
Inside, the ma?tre d' leads us to our table. It's busy, too busy. The constant chatter grates on my nerves.
"Chicken stroganoff for the lady," I order, "And I'll have the steak. And bring out your finest champagne."
Zara beams at me. "You remembered my favorite."
"Of course," I reply, forcing a smile. But inside, I'm cursing myself. This isn't right. She deserves so much more.
Minutes tick by. Where's the damn champagne? My fingers drum on the table as I scan the room, my mind racing. Perhaps the beach at sunrise? Or a hot air balloon ride? No, those are too cliché. I need something befitting a queen.
A day out in the yacht?
"Is everything alright?" Zara asks, her brow furrowed with concern.
I reach across the table, taking her delicate hand in mine. "Everything's perfect," I lie, "As long as I'm with you."
The food and glasses arrive at last, but still, no champagne. I try to hail down a waiter, furious at the delay. Finally, a frazzled-looking one arrives.
“Bring the champagne, will you?” I glower at him. “Or are you planning to serve it up as dessert?”
“O-of course, Sir.” He looks petrified as he scurries off.
Zara looks thrilled with her meal, but it quickly fades as she takes her first bite of the stroganoff. Her face contorts, a grimace replacing her usual radiance.
"Abram," she whispers, her voice strained. "I don't feel well."
I lean forward, concern etching my features. "What's wrong, dorogaya?"
She pushes the plate away, her skin paling. "The chicken… I think it might be bad…"
My jaw clenches, anger flaring at the thought of anything harming her. "Let me taste it," I demand, reaching for her fork.
"No, don't," she protests weakly. "I wouldn't want you to also get sick if it is."
I flag down our waiter, my voice low and dangerous. "Bring something else. Now. And tell the chef if he's poisoned my girl, there'll be hell to pay."
The waiter scurries off, terror in his eyes. Good. He should be afraid.
"Abram," Zara chides softly, but I can see the hint of a smile playing at her lips. She knows I'd burn the world for her.
When a fresh plate arrives—a light salad this time—I watch her carefully. She nibbles at a piece of lettuce, but her face remains pale.
"Still not feeling better?" I ask, reaching across to stroke her cheek.
She shakes her head, looking miserable. "I'm sorry, I don't think I can eat anything right now."
My heart clenches. This isn't how tonight was supposed to go. The ring in my pocket feels heavier by the second, my grand plans crumbling around me. But her well-being is all that matters.
Besides, this might just be a sign. This is no way to propose. What the hell was I thinking?
"That's it," I declare, standing abruptly. "We're going home."
Zara looks up at me, relief washing over her features. "Are you sure? I hate to ruin our evening…"
I cup her face gently, my thumb stroking her cheek. "Nothing's ruined, lyubov moya. Your health comes first."
As we exit the restaurant, I wrap my arm protectively around her waist, guiding her to the waiting car. The cool night air seems to help a little, bringing some color back to her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs as we slide into the backseat.
I pull her close, kissing her temple. "Don't apologize. I just want you to feel better."
***
Over the next few days, I barely leave Zara's side. My phone buzzes constantly with business, but I ignore it all. The Bratva can wait; Zara’s been feeling weak for over four days now. She’s barely eating and sleeps for half the day. I insist on calling a doctor, but she claims it’s just the common flu.
Even though I have my doubts.
"You don't have to stay," she insists weakly from her place on the couch, wrapped in blankets.
I bring her a cup of ginger tea, sitting beside her. "Wild horses couldn't drag me away, Zara."
She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I can see the worry there, the questions she's not asking. I wish I had answers for her.
"What if something urgent happens at work?" she whispers, voicing her fear.
I take her hand, squeezing gently. “They can call me.”
As another day passes, I can't shake the feeling that something isn't right. Zara's symptoms seem to ebb and flow, but they're not going away. The nausea, the fatigue, the sudden aversions to certain foods—it's all starting to paint a picture in my mind, one that both thrills and terrifies me.
"How are you feeling this morning?" I ask, running my fingers through her tousled hair as she stirs in bed.
Zara groans softly. "A little better, I think. Maybe I could try some breakfast?"
I nod, eager to see her eat. "Anything you want. How about some eggs? Light and easy on the stomach."
She considers for a moment, then nods. "That sounds good, actually."
I head to the kitchen, my mind racing. Could it be? The timing would be right, but surely she would have realized by now if… I shake my head, focusing on cooking the eggs perfectly. No use jumping to conclusions.
When I return with the plate, Zara's sitting up, looking almost like her old self. She takes a small bite, chewing slowly.
"This is really good, Abram. Thank you for taking such good care of me."
I smile, relief washing over me. "Always, my love. I'm just glad to see you eating."
But my relief is short-lived. Halfway through her second bite, Zara's face goes pale. She claps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with panic.
"Zara?" I barely have time to grab the wastebasket before she's retching violently into it.
As I hold her hair back, rubbing soothing circles on her back, the realization hits me like a ton of bricks. This isn't just some lingering stomach bug. This is something else entirely.
"It's okay," I murmur, my heart pounding. "I'm here. We'll figure this out together."
Zara looks up at me, tears in her eyes, and I see the same understanding dawning in her gaze. We don't need to say it out loud. We both know what this means.
Zara's hands tremble as she sets down the wastebasket. Her eyes meet mine, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths. I can see the fear, the uncertainty, and something else… hope?
"Abram," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "I… I think I need to tell you something."
I sit on the edge of the bed, taking her small hand in mine. The contrast of her delicate fingers against my calloused palm reminds me of our differences, yet how perfectly we fit together.
"What is it?" I ask, my thumb tracing circles on her wrist.
She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the effort. "I've been… suspecting something. About my health."
My heart races, but I keep my expression calm, needing to hear it from her. "Go on, Zara. You can tell me anything."
"I'm late," she blurts out, her cheeks flushing. "I was afraid of telling you because I didn’t want to scare you over nothing. I thought my period would come around. But with all these symptoms… I think… I might be…"
The word hangs unspoken between us, heavy with possibility. I feel a surge of protectiveness, of fierce love for this woman and the potential life we may have created.
"Pregnant?" I finish for her, my voice low and tender.
She nods, tears spilling over. "I'm scared, Abram. What if I am? What if I'm not? I don't know what to do."
I cup her face in my hands, wiping away her tears with my thumbs. "Shh, Sweetheart. There's no need to be afraid. Whatever happens, we're in this together."
I reach for my phone on the nightstand, already formulating a plan. "I think it's time we find out for sure. I'll have my assistant bring over a pregnancy test right away."
Zara's eyes widen. "Now? But what if—”
I silence her with a gentle kiss. "No more 'what ifs'. Let's face this head-on, alright? Whatever the result, I'm right here with you."
She nods, a small smile breaking through her tears. I make the call, my free hand never leaving hers. As we wait, I can't help but imagine our future—a future that might now include a child. The thought both terrifies and exhilarates me.