Chapter 24
JENNA
The car pulls up to Abram’s building, sleek and silent. I smooth my dress, exhale deeply, and step out into the crisp Vegas evening.
Part of me is glad he suggested a night in. Between the boutique, the salon, and the positive test, my nerves are strung tighter than piano wire. Being in public tonight would’ve been too much.
But up in his penthouse, just the two of us and a little candlelight, that I can handle.
The elevator doors close behind me with a soft chime before ascending to the top floor.
The glass walls reveal an amazing, glittering view of the Strip, the city slowly slipping into its nighttime splendor.
It’s sunset, and everything’s bathed in a honeyed gold—buildings edged in light, sky streaked with rose and violet.
When the elevator glides to a stop, the doors open into Abram’s penthouse like magic.
He’s at the dining table, dressed in a pale grey button-up and tailored black slacks, sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar open just enough to tease. He’s preparing the place settings, a soft, domestic moment that sets every nerve in my body on fire.
The scent of something delicious floats in from the kitchen, garlic, herbs, and butter. Light jazz hums low in the background, candles flickering golden across the glass table.
It’s too much. Too perfect.
He looks up and smiles when he sees me. My breath catches.
“Bozhe moy,” he says, crossing the room. “You look unbelievable.”
“Thanks,” I manage, feeling like a teenager on prom night. “You look pretty amazing yourself.”
His arms wrap around me, one hand skimming down my back to rest just above the swell of my hips. He kisses me, slow and warm, with just enough pressure to make me melt into him. I soak in his presence, trying to keep my brain from shouting “I’m pregnant!” at full volume.
He pulls back and brushes a knuckle down my cheek. “Wine?”
I hesitate, then shake my head. “My stomach’s been a little weird today. Probably stress.”
His brows twitch into a slight frown, the wheels starting to turn. But he doesn’t press. He just gives me a nod and steps back toward the table.
“You hungry?” he asks.
“Starving,” I reply, easing out of my heels. “Smells amazing.”
He grins, a flash of pride in his eyes. “Osso buco. My mother’s recipe.”
I smile. “Are you trying to seduce me with veal shank, Mr. Vasiliev?”
“Is it working?”
Oh, it’s working. Everything he does works.
“I’ll have to taste it first.”
I grin, but I’m shaking beneath my brave exterior. Because this might become more than a dinner. It might be the last night of us, before things change forever.
I perch at the kitchen bar, resting my chin on my palm as I watch him move around the stovetop like he was born to cook. I’ve seen him cook before, but there’s something different about tonight. I’m no longer evaluating him as just a cook; I’m now looking at him as a potential dad.
The thought is so intense I push it out of my head as quickly as I can.
“Am I dreaming?” I ask. “You’re really pulling off domestic god tonight.”
He gives me a sideways glance, smirking as he drizzles sauce with precision. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”
“Doesn’t matter. Watching you do all of this in slacks and a dress shirt is already worth the trip.”
He chuckles, something in his face softening as he spoons risotto onto plates. “You ever cook?”
“Does Trader Joe’s orange chicken in a wok count?”
He snorts, then smirks. “Not even a little.”
“Well, then no.”
“I could teach you,” he says, glancing at me again, more curious than flirty now. “If you ever wanted to learn.”
I tilt my head. “You’d be patient with me?”
“Depends on how cute you look screwing up.”
“Oh, well, in that case, I’ll burn everything.” I give him a wink.
He grins and slides the plates onto the bar, pouring each of us a glass of sparkling water before gesturing toward the table near the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The view is breathtaking—the glamorous lights of Vegas stretches out below us as far as the eye can see, glittering and alive. We sit across from one another, and when we clink our glasses, his eyes linger on mine.
“To beautiful nights,” he says.
“To beautiful nights,” I echo.
God help me, I think I’m falling in love with this man.
The food is incredible. I keep taking slow bites just to stretch out the experience, but even then, my plate empties faster than I’d like.
“You weren’t lying,” I murmur between bites. “Your mother deserves a Michelin star.”
He smiles, his eyes settling on something behind me. I turn and see a small pile of toys tucked neatly in the corner of the hallway—colorful blocks, a plush dinosaur, a tiny pink handbag.
“What are those?” I ask.
“Oh,” he says, pouring more sparkling water. “For my nieces, Emma and Lilia. I’m planning on surprising them with a few more things the next time I see them.”
He smiles, bright and genuine. Seeing him light up like that, as if all the carefully arranged pieces of him just cracked slightly open, does something to me.
“You sound like a great uncle,” I say softly.
“Well, they’re great kids,” he replies, setting the bottle down. “Smart, wild. Denis says they get their wild side from me. He’s probably right.”
“And your nephew?” I ask, recalling framed photos on his desk.
“Charles. Mikail’s boy. That one’s got a steel-trap brain. He’s going to outsmart us all by the time he’s ten.”
He sounds proud. More than proud, attached. My heart stretches a little wider, wondering if he wants a family of his own someday.
“Do you spend a lot of time with them?” I ask.
“I like being able to visit. Spoil them, play the fun uncle, then come home and have my own space. My life is too full for much more than that.”
My fork pauses mid-air. I look at him, but he’s unaware of the quiet way my heart’s sinking.
His life is too full. No room for more.
I can’t help but wonder if that includes me.
I look away.
Abram’s words keep echoing in my head… then come home and have my own space.
That isn’t very promising for the whole “Hey, surprise, I’m carrying your child” conversation I’m supposed to work up the courage for tonight.
I can feel Abram watching me.
“You okay?” he asks, quiet and careful. He knows something’s up.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re not a great liar,” he says with a little smirk. “You’re staring off into space.”
I force a chuckle. “Guess I’m just tired. Long week.”
He gives me a look that says he doesn’t buy it, but he lets it go. He gets up and starts clearing the plates, moving with that infuriating sex appeal, even when doing something as ordinary as rinsing dishes. Seeing him like this, in a domestic and homey setting, makes my chest ache.
He returns a minute later, carrying two dessert plates and a cocky grin. “Olive oil chocolate mousse,” he says as he sets one in front of me. “With blood orange and Maldon Sea Salt flakes.”
My eyes widen. “This looks amazing.”
“Desserts are my thing,” he says with a shrug, like it’s no big deal. As if this man isn’t already too good to be true.
I take a bite and holy hell—it’s divine. Deep, dark chocolate. Silky texture. The citrus hits next, bright and sharp, followed by the crunch of sea salt like a little surprise party on my tongue. I moan before I can stop myself. And then I devour the whole damn thing like I haven’t eaten in a week.
When I finally come up for air, I notice his plate’s only half-touched. He’s watching me, amused and a little turned on.
I groan. “That was not cute. I just blacked out and inhaled that like a woman possessed.”
He leans in, reaches across the table, and wraps his hand around mine. His touch is warm and grounding, and it sends a little flutter through me. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “I love seeing you enjoying what I make. Never be embarrassed about that.”
I try to look away but he holds my gaze.
“Don’t ever feel like you have to shrink yourself,” he says. “Not your appetite. Not your laugh. Not your body. Not one damn thing.”
My breath catches.
“I want you satisfied. Always.”
Something stirs deep inside me—a mixture of lust, longing, and once again, something dangerously close to love. For a brief moment, any fear I had fades away.
Abram clears the table while I savor the last bit of that wicked mousse still lingering on my tongue. A moment later, he returns with a drink in hand. It's citrusy and herbal, served in a rocks glass with a fat slice of orange.
“Ginger, lemon, chamomile,” he says, handing it to me. “Helps with digestion. And stress.”
I give him a soft smile. “What doesn’t this man do?”
He chuckles.
We settle onto his sleek charcoal couch. The lights are low, the city glowing beyond the glass like it’s putting on a show just for us. I sit close. I want to be near him, but my body feels split—half desperate to melt into his arms, half aching for the quiet safety of being alone.
I thought maybe I’d be able to tell him tonight. Rip the bandage off, like Claire said to. But now, curled up next to him on his sofa, with the weight of it all pressing on my chest, I know I can’t. Not yet.
He glances at me, eyes dark. “I wanted to tear that dress off you the second I saw you walk through the door,” he says. “Still do. But I can tell that’s not where your head is tonight.”
I swallow, guilt thick in my throat. “I’m sorry. I’m just stressed. My friend Claire, you remember her, from the club? She’s dealing with some stuff. I guess it’s weighing on me too.”
It’s not the worst lie I’ve ever told, but it’s still a lie. And judging by the quiet in his expression, he knows it. But he doesn’t call me out. Doesn’t press.
Instead, he runs a knuckle gently down my cheek. “You want a bath and a good night’s sleep? You can have your own bed if you’d prefer.”
Part of me wants to say yes. To stay. To let him hold me and pretend, just for a few hours, that the world isn’t tilting under my feet.
But I decline.
“Thank you. Really. That sounds amazing, but I think I need to go home tonight. I’m afraid I’m not very good company right now.”
He nods once. No judgment. Just quiet understanding that somehow makes him even harder to walk away from.
“I’ll call the driver,” he says softly, reaching for his phone.
I glance down at my glass. “You’re not mad?”
“Of course not,” he says. “You don’t owe me anything, Jenna.”
That about undoes me. Because the truth is, I might owe him everything, and he doesn’t even know it.
He finishes his drink in one smooth gulp. I sip mine, just to have something to do with my hands. It helps. A little.
The car arrives too quickly. Or maybe not quickly enough.
He walks me to the elevator, his hand settling low on my back, fingers spread wide over my hips like he can’t quite let go yet. At the doors, he turns me toward him.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says. “Just wanted to tell you that again.”
My breath catches. He leans in, kissing me slow and deep, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me.
For a heartbeat, I nearly cave. I could stay.
Let him undress me, carry me to bed, make love to me in that all-consuming way that makes everything else—my fears, the pregnancy, all the unknowns—fade away as he tells me I’m his…
The elevator dings.
“Jenna,” he says, voice low, fingers brushing my cheek. “You sure?”
I nod, even as everything in me aches to stay. “Yeah. I just, I need some air.”
“Okay.” He presses one last kiss to my forehead. “I’ll be here.”
I step in, heart pounding, my eyes glued to him until the doors slide shut.
Once I’m alone, falling back down to earth, I nearly collapse.
I have no idea what I’m going to do.