The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride (Rusnak Bratva #13)

Chapter 1 – Ashley

The bass from the runway speakers vibrates straight through the floorboards, a heavy, rhythmic heartbeat that matches the frantic energy backstage.

The Metropolitan Pavilion is a sensory overload of silk, expensive perfume, and flashing lights, but I don’t let any of it distract me.

This is my arena, and I’m in complete control.

“No, absolutely not,” I tell a trembling designer, my voice sharp and final as I point to a model’s outfit. “The brief called for the draped silk, not the tulle. Swap it out right now, or your collection doesn’t touch my runway. You have three minutes.”

The designer scurries off, and I turn to see my assistant, Maya Verma, walking stride-for-stride beside me, her iPad in hand as she effortlessly feeds me updates.

“The French investors just took their front-row seats, Ashley,” Maya says, her voice a calm anchor in the storm. “And the customs clearance on the Milan couture line just finalized. The freight elevator is bringing the crates up as we speak.”

“Discretion and precision, Maya,” I reply, checking a garment rack as we pass. “That’s why these people pay us the big bucks. Let’s make sure they get exactly what they paid for.”

When Maya strides away, I weave through the maze of clothing racks and frantic makeup artists, my eyes scanning every detail with practiced precision.

To the untrained eye, this is a chaotic circus of vanity.

To me, it’s a high-stakes logistics puzzle where every second, every fabric, and every movement is calculated down to the millimeter.

My firm, Kang Logistics, doesn’t just transport couture; we orchestrate the entire sensory experience for the world’s most elite designers. We blend absolute operational discipline with creative execution, and that’s why my clients pay seven figures for our discretion.

My focus is sliced in half when I spot Richard Sterling, a major venture capitalist who bankrolled tonight’s VIP lounge, cornering one of my lead models near the runway entrance.

He’s holding a glass of scotch, his posture dripping with the casual entitlement of a man who thinks his net worth buys him backstage privileges and hands-on access.

I step directly into his path, my heels clicking with deliberate weight on the concrete.

“Mr. Sterling,” I say, offering a polite but razor-sharp smile. “The VIP lounge is on the second floor. Backstage is strictly restricted to active crew.”

He looks me up and down, his eyes lingering a little too long on the curve of my hips before meeting my gaze with a condescending smirk. “And you are?”

“Ashley Kang. CEO of Kang Logistics,” I reply, keeping my voice smooth and level, though my posture is steel. “The woman ensuring your guests actually have a flawless runway show to watch tonight.”

He chuckles, a patronizing sound. “Well, Ashley, I’m sure a pretty girl like you can make an exception for the man funding this whole circus. I was just trying to get an up-close look at the final lineup.”

“I deeply appreciate your generous funding, Mr. Sterling,” I say, my tone dropping a fraction of a degree, making it perfectly clear that his wealth doesn’t intimidate me.

“Which is exactly why I’m keeping this area clear.

If a single garment is damaged or a model is distracted, the show is delayed, and your return on investment drops by the minute.

I’m protecting your money. Now, let me have my assistant escort you back to the lounge where the champagne is actually cold. ”

He blinks, completely caught off guard by the sheer, unyielding authority in my voice.

He tries to find a condescending comeback, but my gaze remains locked on his, cool and entirely unimpressed.

Realizing he won’t win this round, he clears his throat and steps back, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Right. Of course. Just…making sure everything is on track,” he mutters, adjusting his suit jacket.

“It is. Because I’m running it,” I reply smoothly. I turn to a passing staff member. “Escort Mr. Sterling back to the gallery, please.”

I don’t wait to watch him leave. I turn on my heel and keep moving, my mind already pivoting back to the freight elevator.

Ten minutes later, I’m moving fast, pivoting around the velvet-draped corridor leading to the secondary staging area.

In my hands, I’m carrying the show’s centerpiece—a fragile, archival crystal-and-silk headpiece flown in from Paris, worth more than my first apartment.

Then, I hit a wall.

It’s not drywall. It’s solid, unyielding muscle.

The impact rattles my teeth. The delicate headpiece slips from my hands, hitting the polished concrete floor with a devastating, sharp clack as several intricate, hand-set crystals snap off and scatter across the floor.

“Fucking hell,” a deep, gravelly voice rumbles above me.

I take a half-step back to steady myself on my heels, my head tilting back. And back.

The man towering over me is a solid, imposing mass of effortless, devastating masculinity. Dark, slightly tousled black hair frames a face with sharp, rugged angles, but it’s his eyes that stop me cold—striking, crystal blue, assessing me with a lazy, amused curiosity.

He isn’t in a rigid tuxedo like the other investors; his style is pure, understated luxury.

A black tailored shirt, the top three buttons casually undone, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark ink snaking up his wrists.

As someone who breathes fashion, I instantly notice his elegant, laid-back style.

He doesn’t look remotely apologetic. In fact, a slow, lazy smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Watch the cargo, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a low, playful purr. “You almost took us both down.”

My blood instantly turns to liquid fire. I look at the shattered crystals on the floor, then step right back into his space, my small frame vibrating with pure, unfiltered fury.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I snap, pointing a sharp, manicured finger at his chest. “You just destroyed the finale’s centerpiece because you were too busy taking up space to look where you’re going.

I don’t care how much money you have or whose guest you are—apologize, pick that up, and get the hell out of my backstage before I have security throw you out on your face. ”

Instead of flinching, his smirk only widens.

He slowly lowers his gaze to my finger on his chest, then brings his eyes back to mine, his blue eyes gleaming with absolute entertainment.

He is clearly a man used to being liked, used to controlling every conversation he walks into, but my hostility is just a game to him.

“You’ve got a hell of a mouth on you, Ashley,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to read the VIP badge pinned to my dress before slowly, deliberately trailing down the plunge of my emerald blazer, taking in my curves with a heat that makes my skin tingle.

“And a temper to match. But I don’t do apologies for accidents.

Especially when you’re the one who ran into me. ”

“I didn’t run into you, you arrogant prick. You were standing in a restricted lane,” I fire back, my chest heaving as I stare him down.

The air between us is suddenly thick, charged with a volatile, heavy current that has absolutely nothing to do with the ruined headpiece on the floor.

It’s raw, magnetic, and completely infuriating.

I hate him on principle, yet my heart is hammering against my ribs in a way that has nothing to do with anger.

“Then maybe you should have steered more clearly,” he teases, leaning down just enough for the scents of cedarwood, rich whiskey, and pure male heat to invade my senses.

“But since you’re so worried about the cheap rocks on the floor, how about I write you a check to cover the damage?

Or better yet, I’ll buy you a drink, and you can tell me all the other things I’m doing wrong. ”

“I don’t want your fucking money, and I sure as hell don’t want a drink with a man who thinks his smile excuses his stupidity,” I hiss, locking my dark eyes onto his. “Step aside. Now.”

He doesn’t move an inch. He just stands there, completely solid, his gaze burning into mine with a quiet, dangerous confidence that tells me he isn’t a man who takes orders.

But beneath the playful arrogance, there’s a sudden, sharp focus in his eyes that tells me he’s feeling the exact same electric pull.

“Ashley!”

Maya’s voice slices through the thick, suffocating tension like a siren. I pull my gaze away from him, my heart hammering a furious rhythm against my ribs as I force myself to blink.

“The Paris flight team is on the radio,” Maya says, rushing up to us with her iPad clutched to her chest, her eyes widening slightly as she registers the shattered crystals on the floor and the sheer, physical mass of the man towering over me.

“The customs broker needs your authorization code for the second shipment of runway shoes, or they’re holding the truck. ”

“I’m on it,” I say. My voice is tight, but I force it to remain steady, refusing to give this man the satisfaction of knowing he has rattled me.

I look up at him one last time, my dark eyes hard and dismissive. “We’re done here.”

“Are we, Ashley?” he murmurs, his lazy smirk returning as he speaks my name, letting it roll off his tongue with a low, deep resonance that sends an unwelcome shiver straight down my spine.

I don’t answer him. I step around his massive frame, deliberately brushing my shoulder against his chest as I sweep past, leaving him standing in the corridor with his empty glass and his infuriating confidence.

For the next two hours, I lose myself in the work. I coordinate with the backstage handlers, sign the high-value transport manifests, and direct the models with sharp, clinical precision.