Page 13 of Hostage with Benefits

A year later I was concealing my baby bump beneath a designer gown worth more than my old apartment's rent.

“Stop fidgeting,” Mikhail murmured, his hand warm at the curve of my hip as we entered the ballroom of a fancy hotel. “You look perfect.”

“I look pregnant,” I whispered back, though at four months along, the evidence was still minimal enough to disguise with clever styling.

“Yes,” he agreed, his voice dropping to that register that still made my stomach flip. “And it's driving me insane knowing you're carrying my child.”

“Possessive much?”

His lips quirked in that almost-smile I'd grown to recognize as genuine amusement. “I told you I’ll always be like that, kukolka . Always.”

The ballroom was a study in opulence, with crystal chandeliers, marble floors, and gold accents that stopped just short of being tacky.

The guests were similarly elegant, the women dripping with jewels, the men in impeccable suits that couldn't quite disguise the dangerous energy that hummed beneath their civilized appearance .

This was Mikhail's world, the upper echelon of organized crime, gathered to celebrate Mikhail's grandfather’s seventieth birthday.

I'd met Mikhail's family exactly once, three months after our impromptu Vegas wedding.

The encounter had been cordial but cool, his mother clearly disapproving of both the hasty marriage and the American bride.

His father had been less so, studying me with piercing blue eyes so similar to Mikhail's that it was unsettling.

“Mikhail,” a voice called, and we turned to find a barrel-chested man with salt-and-pepper hair approaching. “And the lovely Mrs. Volkov.”

“Uncle Viktor,” Mikhail greeted him. “You remember my wife, Natalia.”

“How could I forget?” The older man kissed my cheeks in the European fashion. “The American who tamed our Mikhail. You're looking radiant tonight.”

Mikhail tensed slightly beside me. We hadn't announced the pregnancy to his family yet. It was a deliberate choice on my part. I wanted to keep the news contained for as long as I could.

“Thank you,” I said smoothly. “It's good to see you again.”

As the evening progressed, I was separated from Mikhail and drawn into a circle of wives and girlfriends who eyed me with curiosity. I'd learned that everyone assumed I was a monolingual American, and I forgot to correct them.

“She doesn't look like much,” one woman murmured in Russian to another, eyeing me over her champagne glass. “How did she manage to get Mikhail Volkov to marry her?”

“I heard she was his hostage,” another whispered back.

I sipped my water, pretending not to understand. Let them underestimate me. It was a position I'd grown comfortable with.

“Mrs. Volkov,” a cold female voice interrupted in English. I turned to find Mikhail's mother, Elena, elegant as always in midnight blue. “A word, if you don't mind.”

The other women scattered like startled birds. I followed Elena to a quieter corner of the ballroom, bracing myself for a subtle interrogation about my suitability as Mikhail’s wife.

Instead, she surprised me by saying, “You're pregnant.”

It wasn't a question.

I met her gaze steadily. “Yes.”

“How far along?”

“Four months.”

She nodded, as if confirming a suspicion. “And you haven't told the family.”

“Mikhail knows. That's what matters.”

“You've changed him,” she sighed. “He’s keeping secrets from me.”

“I haven't tried to.”

“No, I don't imagine you have. That's probably why it worked.” She studied me with her scary penetrating eyes. “He smiles now. Did you know that? Before you, I hadn't seen my son smile in years.”

I didn't know how to respond to that, so I remained silent.

“The men,” she continued after a moment, “they carry darkness in them.

It's what makes them successful in this world.

But it's also a burden.” Her gaze drifted to where Mikhail stood across the room, deep in conversation with his grandfather.

“You've lightened his. For that, if nothing else, I suppose I should thank you.”

Before I could respond, she was gone, gliding back into the crowd with the practiced ease of a woman who had navigated these events for decades.

I found Mikhail again twenty minutes later, after extracting myself from a conversation with a particularly persistent wife of one of his associates.

“Having fun?” he asked, passing me a fresh glass of water.

“Immensely. I've been called a gold digger in three different conversations and had rumors about me discussed at length by women who think I don't understand them.”

His jaw tightened. “Who?”

“Doesn't matter.” I placed a hand on his arm. “I had an interesting conversation with your mother, though.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“She knows about my pregnancy. ” I finished the sentence in a whisper.

His eyebrows rose. “How?”

“Women's intuition? Or maybe because I'm drinking water at an open bar.”

He glanced down at my still relatively-flat stomach. “Are you ready to make it official, then?”

“Might as well. Your mom might beat us to it otherwise.”

A moment after his grandfather's speech provided the perfect opportunity. After the old man finished speaking, glasses were raised in a toast. Mikhail kept me at his side as various family members approached to pay their respects to the patriarch.

When our turn came, Mikhail guided me forward with a hand at the base of the. Base of my spine.

“Grandfather,” he said in Russian, “thank you for including us in your celebration.”

The old man nodded regally, then turned his attention to me. “Natalia,” he said, his accent thicker than Mikhail's. “You are well?”

“Very well, thank you,” I replied in Russian. “And blessed with good news.” I placed a hand deliberately on my stomach. “We're expecting a child in the spring.”

The silence that fell over our immediate vicinity was almost comical. Then the patriarch's weathered face split into a broad smile.

“This is the best present I could get,” he said, raising his glass again.

Just like that, I was no longer the questionable American bride in the eyes of his family; I was the mother of Mikhail’s heir. My husband kept me close, his hand never leaving my waist, his eyes checking on me regularly with a protectiveness that still made my heart flutter with embarrassment.

It was past midnight when we finally made our way back to our room at the hotel. I kicked off my heels with a groan of relief, unzipping my gown and letting it pool at my feet.

“That went better than expected,” I said, stretching my arms overhead.

Mikhail's eyes darkened as they traced the curve of my body, lingering on the slight swell of my stomach. “You were magnificent.”

“I stood around and announced I'm pregnant. Hardly an achievement.”

“You navigated a room full of family and friends with grace and confidence.” He moved closer, hands settling on my hips. “You spoke Russian with my grandfather. You even impressed my mother, which I previously thought was impossible.”

“She told me I make you smile.”

Vulnerability was written across his face. “You do.”

“I've created a monster. You used to be so stoic and intimidating.”

“I'm still intimidating,” he protested, but his lips were curved in exactly the smile we were discussing.

“Terrifying,” I agreed, running my hands up his chest to loosen his tie. “The big bad Russian man who brings me tea when I'm nauseous and talks to my stomach in Russian as if the baby can already hear him.”

He caught my hands, bringing them to his lips. “I’m like that only for you, kukolka .”

Later, as we lay tangled together in bed, his hand settled on my stomach in what had become a nightly ritual.

“I keep thinking this can't be real,” he said into my hair. “That I'll wake up and you'll be gone. That none of this happened.”

“If this is a dream, we're having the same one.” I covered his hand with mine.

His hand moved in gentle circles over the small swell where our child grew. “Are you happy, Natalia? Truly?”

The question was earnest, vulnerable in a way only I got to see. I turned in his arms to face him, finding his eyes in the dim light.

“Yes,” I said simply. “Against all logic and reason, yes.”

“You know, our child is going to be spoiled rotten, yeah?” I murmured a few minutes later .

“Our child,” he repeated.

“Our son or daughter,” I murmured. “Fifty-fifty chance.”

“A daughter would be perfect. I’d be surrounded by the two most beautiful women in the world. What a blessing.”

As I drifted off, I couldn't help but reflect on the absurdity of my life's trajectory. One year ago, I'd been kidnapped from a Trader Joe's parking lot. Now I was pregnant and married to my kidnapper.

My therapist had eventually fired me as a client, claiming my “persistent romanticization of a clearly Stockholm syndrome situation” was beyond her professional capabilities. Galina cackled for five straight minutes when I told her.

But as I fell asleep in my husband's arms, pregnant with our child, I couldn't help but be grateful for how everything turned out.

the end.