Page 42 of Forbidden Bratva Virgin

With a sigh, I shifted my purse to my other arm and bent down, only to freeze. My mother was on the other end of the phone, rambling about how she met my dad and something unrelated about cheesecake, but I was barely listening.

A bouquet of flowers rested against my office door. Elegant, carefully arranged, and undeniably meant for me.

Poor me, a sucker for mushy moments and sweet things.

My heart gave a curious little flutter as I crouched to pick them up.

“Mom, I love you so much, but I have to go now.” I didn’t wait to hear her protests before hanging up.

For a brief moment, I just held them, inhaling the delicate scent of lilies and roses. I wondered, and was hoping, that Nathan realized how much of a jerk he’d been lately and sent me these.

Shaking off the mystery for now, I finally found my keys and stepped inside, placing the bouquet gently on my desk. I had a full schedule ahead: appointments, notes to review, lives to help untangle. But as I settled into my chair, a warm feeling lingered.

I pulled the bouquet closer. A crisp white envelope nestled among the stems bore my name in neat handwriting.

Smiling cheekily, I opened it and slipped out the folded note.

Miss Sinclair,

I know. I’m skipping the session again. You told me not to, but I never promised I wouldn’t. Before you start composing that concerned lecture in your head, hear me out. I have a better offer.

Dinner. Tonight. My treat. Consider it a professional courtesy, an expression of gratitude, or just me attempting to be properly civil for once. You’ve put in a ridiculous amount of effort trying to fix what’s broken in me. Even if I don’t agree that I need fixing, the least I can do is host you for a meal.

At eight, I’ll have a car in front of your house. If you dismiss the driver, I’ll assume you’re done putting up with me. If you don’t, well…I guess we’ll both be surprised.

The sender wasn’t Nathan but….

—M. Yezhov.

***

I shouldn’t have accepted, but curiosity got the better of me.

After spending all night getting ready and choosing a simple short plum brown dress, a pair of flats, and a matching bow for my hair, I told myself I shouldn’t go.

It was unprofessional, maybe even reckless. But after a long day of listening, guiding, and holding space for others, I felt an eagerness stir in me. I had no idea what I would be walking into, but I wanted to find out.

It was a simple dinner, I repeated.

Consider it a professional courtesy, an expression of gratitude, or just me attempting to be properly civil for once.

He was trying to be nice, and the least I could do was give him the opportunity to be courteous.

So, here I was, struggling to breathe regularly when the elevator doors slid open, revealing the private entrance to the glass-fortress penthouse.

I smoothed my dress, sucked in another breath, and stepped inside.

The air carried sandalwood, bergamot, and a warm, spiced aroma.

Towering windows showcased the city skyline, its lights shimmering like distant stars. The room was expansive yet cozy, featuring dark wood accents, minimalist silhouettes, and subtle sophistication.

And there he was.

Miron stood near the plush sectional, hands in his pockets, watching me with a gaze that was both unreadable and magnetic.

He looked effortlessly put together, wearing charcoal trousers tailored to perfection, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest ease, and a watch that likely cost more than my rent.

“I see you got my note.” His voice had just a hint of warmth.

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