Chapter 28
JENNA
Abram pulls the car up to the valet stand outside Joel Robuchon.
We step out, and I have to give myself a second to wrap my head around the sight.
I can’t believe I’m here. Just the thought of stepping inside has my heart doing back flips.
The restaurant is Michelin-starred, dazzlingly elegant, and way, way outside my usual league.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask. “I feel a little out of place.”
He wraps a protective arm around my waist, his warm hand settling possessively at my hip. “Don’t worry about that. I fully intend to show you off.”
The low growl of his voice sends a shiver down my spine. God, this man knows exactly how to make me melt. I glance up at him, my breath catching as I take in those piercing blue eyes.
Inside, the restaurant is stunning. There’s a soft glow from ornate chandeliers, black and gold accents, plush velvet chairs. The ma?tre d’ greets Abram by name, his manner impeccable, leading us to a quiet table near a floor-to-ceiling window with a gorgeous view of the Vegas skyline.
“Abram, this place is insane,” I whisper, laughing nervously as I take in the sheer luxury around us. “I’d have to save for a year just to eat an appetizer here.”
He chuckles, leaning in so only I can hear him. “If you like it, we can eat here every day.”
I roll my eyes affectionately, my cheeks warming. “You’re sweet.”
He arches a brow, amusement lighting his handsome features. “Sweet isn’t something I’m used to being called. But coming from you, I’ll take it.”
As soon as we sit, a waiter in a tailored suit appears, brandishing a bottle of wine like he’s presenting us with a sacred artifact.
“A 2012 Chateau Lafite Rothschild,” he announces with pride.
“An exquisite Bordeaux with notes of ripe currant, cedar, and just a hint of spice. Perfect for tonight’s first course. ”
I glance at Abram, surprised. “Did you order ahead?”
He shakes his head and leans back in his seat, completely at ease. “Every Saturday, the chef prepares a special five-course tasting menu. No ordering. You simply trust the chef’s judgment and enjoy.”
“Wow,” I breathe. I’m genuinely impressed.
My eyes drift to the deep red wine being poured into the crystal glasses, a wave of anxiety rising within.
I can’t drink wine, obviously, and refusing such a delectable vintage will immediately raise suspicion.
My heart pounds faster, nerves twisting into a tight knot in my stomach.
Is now the moment? Should I tell him here, at this beautiful table, that I’m pregnant?
I swallow hard, my fingers nervously tracing the edge of my napkin. Abram must sense the shift in me because he places his hand over mine. The warmth of his touch grounds me instantly.
“Everything alright?” he asks.
I lift my gaze to meet his. Those eyes—so intense—always seeing more than I want to reveal.
I force a small, reassuring smile. “Yeah. Just overwhelmed by all of this.” I wave a hand around us, gesturing to the elegant surroundings, the perfectly poised waiter, the wine shimmering invitingly. “It’s a lot.”
He studies me carefully for a long moment, and I swear he sees right through me. But instead of pushing, he simply gives my hand a gentle squeeze, settling back again. “Relax. You deserve a night like this.”
His words ease the tension just enough for me to breathe again, even though I know the truth still lingers between us, unspoken.
Abram chuckles softly, a deep, warm sound that rolls over me like velvet. "Trust me, you'll like everything."
Before he can say another word, the waiter moves in with ninja-like silence, slipping a plate onto the table between us.
I eye the delicate hors d’oeuvre in front of me skeptically. "And this is…?"
"Balsamic bruschetta," the waiter says.
Abram gestures for me to take a bite. "Go ahead."
I lift the small piece of bread topped with diced tomatoes, basil, and glossy dark balsamic glaze, feeling a little unsure. Abram watches, his gaze intent and confident. The moment the flavors hit my tongue, my eyes widen.
“Oh my God, that’s delicious!” I exclaim before quickly covering my mouth to chew politely. The flavors are incredible, fresh and sweet with a perfect tangy twist.
Abram’s eyes gleam. "I told you. And that's just the beginning."
I can’t help but smile, a warmth blossoming inside me.
He’s clearly enjoying my surprise. He sips his wine slowly, his gaze lingering on me as if he's savoring the sight of me enjoying myself. I swirl the wine in my untouched glass, feeling another wave of nerves. Abram doesn’t notice. At least, I don’t think he does.
He leans forward slightly, his voice soft and encouraging. "So, tell me more about your life. I want to know more about you."
I glance down, hesitating. I’ve never enjoyed discussing my childhood. But something about Abram, about the gentle intensity in his eyes, encourages honesty.
“It's nothing glamorous,” I begin quietly, poking at my plate.
“I was pretty much raised by the system.
My mom, she was always looking for her next high, never had time for anything else.
I was in and out of foster homes until I turned sixteen.
Then I got emancipated, tried to build a life for myself. "
He watches me carefully, sympathy flickering in his eyes but no pity, which I appreciate. He doesn’t interrupt, just silently waits for me to continue.
"It wasn't easy," I say softly, the old ache of loneliness stirring. "But it taught me resilience, how to rely on myself."
Abram reaches across the table and gently touches my hand, his thumb stroking softly. "You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known, Jenna. Your past doesn't define you—it just makes you all the more impressive."
His words send a wave of warmth through me. My throat tightens, but I smile gratefully. "Thank you. That means a lot." I clear my throat, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "What about you? You rarely talk about yourself."
Abram chuckles softly, leaning back in his chair, one finger tracing the edge of his wine glass. "I prefer to hear you talk."
I arch an eyebrow. "Well, that’s not fair. I’ve spilled plenty of my secrets."
He sighs, looking reluctantly amused. "Very well. I was born in St. Petersburg, Russia. It’s a beautiful city.
It’s cold, with harsh winters, but there's a warmth beneath all that ice.
" His expression softens with nostalgia.
"My sisters and I grew up playing in Palace Square, the snow almost as high as we were sometimes.
My father was strict, but he cared for us deeply. Family was—is—everything."
I smile, touched by the image of him as a little boy in the snow. "That sounds kind of magical, actually. But how did you end up here? Vegas isn’t exactly the next stop after St. Petersburg."
He nods with a small smirk, then goes on.
“My father saw opportunity here. Vegas was still growing. It was lawless and hungry for structure. He founded Vasiliev Holdings from nothing, and when he passed, I took over.” He pauses for a breath, eyes flicking to the horizon outside.
“He always said the desert was honest. It doesn’t hide what it is. You either thrive in it or you don’t.”
“Do you ever miss Russia?” I ask softly.
“Sometimes,” he says, with a shrug. “But Las Vegas is my home now. The past matters, but the future matters more.”
His gaze finds mine as he says it, and something in my chest stutters. The future. Our future. My fingers curl and uncurl nervously in my lap. I have to tell him. As I take a deep breath, preparing myself, the waiter brings our plates, interrupting the moment.
He gracefully places pan-fried garlic butter steak, golden crispy potatoes, and tender asparagus in front of us. My stomach rumbles at the delicious aroma, and Abram laughs softly.
"I can see someone’s hungry," he teases. “Or should I say, hear.”
I blush as I take a bite, savoring the rich, buttery flavor, an involuntary moan of appreciation escaping my lips.
Abram’s gaze darkens instantly, and he leans in close over the small table, whispering, "I can’t wait to hear you moan like that again, but for me."
A rush of lustful heat floods through me, momentarily scattering all coherent thoughts. My breath catches as I meet his eyes, my heart hammering. I swallow hard, excitement mingling with anxiety.
He brushes his lips softly against mine before settling back in his chair, and my resolve returns, stronger. Now is definitely the moment. Even if it changes everything, Abram deserves to know.
I set down my fork, taking a slow breath. "Abram, there's something I need to tell you."
Concern instantly takes over his expression. "What is it?"
I hesitate, swallowing the anxiety bubbling up in my throat. "I’ve been trying to find the right moment—"
He gently takes my hand again, his voice calm and steady as he says, "Whatever it is, you can tell me."
My gaze searches his face, needing reassurance, finding it instantly in his expression.
“Tell me, Malyshka.”