1. Stephie #2
A small voice in my head mentions that us having sex could be irrelevant, and perhaps he felt bad that I was nearly killed—and two of his men were actually killed—by that attempt at reconciliation with the Volk bratva.
But it’s not as though we weren’t all aware of the risks.
The Beckton mafia are quite clear about what sort of organisation they are, and when I applied for the position of executive assistant, although it didn’t say “you’ll help a mafia boss with day-to-day stuff, occasionally including communications with assassins” I knew.
On the other hand, I was exhausted with my parents being snide about how little I earned after getting my “degree in gossip” as they call Psychology, and I really needed a win that could show them I wasn’t as useless a disappointment as they thought me.
I don’t think anything less than being the Prime Minister would have impressed them, outside of me being a lawyer.
I shouldn’t have promised to go into law afterward my degree. It was always unlikely that I’d want to go and do something that didn’t interest me, in a situation that didn’t suit me. I’m far better in the real world, figuring out practical problems.
“I thought you might want to move to another position. Higher salary.” His shoulders are still, and he has that look he gets when he’s negotiating an important deal. Like all his focus is poured onto the person, and he’s almost holding them, willing them to bend to his requirements.
My stomach sinks. Oh good, more failures. I wrap my blazer around myself closer. I’m not cold exactly, but being told I need a new role by the mafia boss who took my virginity and has my heart? Chilling.
He doesn’t want me. Not as a lover, or even as his assistant.
I’m breaking inside.
I smile. “Sure! A new role would give different challenges.”
Maybe ones that aren’t hiding my bump from the bump’s father, and missing him so much I checked online if I could be causing permanent physical damage.
Or hiding that I love him.
“I’ll arrange for you to be the head of the HR team. No travel with that, obviously.” He doesn’t look at me, instead shuffling items on his desk.
Tears prickle behind my eyes. He might never say thank you, but I know I’ve been a good assistant to Mr Bridger, and it’s been my job for four years.
Already, not seeing him every day or travelling with him has been agony.
Our daily emails and occasional phone calls to sort things have been better than nothing.
I am pathetically in love with my boss, and clearly, he doesn’t care about me, even as an employee.
“Thank you, Mr Bridger.” My voice wobbles. I turn to leave.
“How have you been?” There’s an echo of some emotion I don’t recognise in his voice.
“Fine.” I swallow hard and look back reluctantly.
He’s searching my face.
I’ve missed him so much. We worked together constantly for years.
He joked. I told him more than I should have about myself.
He had me buy pizza when we were working late, and ate at restaurants with me, going through work documents.
I hoarded the little insights into his life he gave me.
The revelation that he had a deprived childhood.
The tiny pieces of information about how he built the Beckton mafia into the power it is now, taking over by outmanoeuvring the previous kingpin when he was only nineteen. The ruthless things he did.
He never scared me. But this is a bit scary.
“Did you take some time off after the helicopter crash?” he asks roughly.
I bite my lip and shake my head.
He huffs with annoyance. “I told you to—”
“I wanted to work. It was better than…” Being sad that he doesn’t love or want me.
He folds his arms over his chest. It’s an uncharacteristically defensive pose.
“I understand.” His voice is so deep and solemn, I can practically feel it through the floor.
“Things might change,” I say impulsively. “Could I arrange to have some time off in a few months? After I begin this new role and I’m settled into it?” When I give birth to his baby. It would be good to have it planned in advance.
And although I could ask for maternity leave, I’d rather keep the pregnancy to myself for a bit longer. Another week to come to terms with the fact he’s rejected me again. I’ll tell him when the lump in my throat is more manageable.
No one knows yet. My generous salary means I could get an evening appointment for the first scan, and I’ve altered my clothing to hide the growing bump, so anyone else at work probably thinks I’m embracing being frumpy.
Mr Bridger nods. “When were you thinking of?”
The mental maths is instant. I’ve been counting weeks and months since our night in the cabin in January. I pause, as though I haven’t thought about it, and shrug. “End of October, maybe? Halloween abroad would be fun.”
His head tilts slowly, and I realise my mistake.
In one of our many conversations, I told him that I don’t like Halloween.
My parents wouldn’t let me get dressed up or go trick or treating, and once I was old enough to do it on my own, I felt that I was faking at a joy I missed out on when I was younger.
I might even have confessed that I was waiting to enjoy Halloween with my own kids, if I had any.
Mr Bridger had told me he’d used a bedsheet to be a ghost, and gone out without his parents knowing. It was the one time of the year he got treats.
Is it morning sickness, or nerves that’s making my tummy clench?
My boss’ gaze drops again.
And that’s when I notice.
My hand is cupping my bump.
My blazer has fallen open, and my hand is pressing against my belly, in that pose that’s seemingly natural to pregnancy, showing exactly where my body now curves.
“You’re…” He’s staring right at my stomach.
He knows. His grey eyes slide up to my face, and there are so many feelings there. Fear. Wonder. All the emotions I went through when I discovered.
There’s no point in lying now. Once he starts to question, he won’t let go. He’s utterly ruthless when he wants to know something.
I take a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”