Page 11 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
“Seriously, though,” Jessa says, nudging my foot under the table. “If you need a place to crash, or a getaway plan, I’ve got you. Bad bosses can make you crazy.”
I nod, grateful. “I know. Thanks, Jess.”
We talk for another hour. Mostly about small things, safe things.
When we part, she hugs me again, whispering, “Take care of yourself, Tali. You’re tougher than you think.”
As I walk home, I replay the conversation, letting Jessa’s warmth fill the spaces inside me that Adrian’s presence always chills.
I tell myself it’s enough for now. I tell myself I can do this as long as I remember who I am and who I have on my side, even if they don’t know the whole story.
***
The invitation arrives that evening, just as the sky darkens to the grayish violet of a city winter. I’m standing in the kitchen, drying a mug, when my phone vibrates on the counter.
The message glows formal and impersonal—digital calligraphy at odds with its real intent.
Ms. Benett,
You are invited to attend a private business dinner at the Mironov Estate this Friday evening. The purpose is select media coverage of ongoing philanthropic ventures. Transportation will be arranged.
Attendance confirmed by reply.
I stare at the words, feeling the weight behind them. “Media coverage.” As if the truth has ever been so tidy. My mindflashes to Adrian’s eyes on me—calculating, curious, that quick sweep from head to toe that made me feel at once exposed and measured. The faint grin he’d worn, more suggestion than smile, as if he knew exactly how this invitation would land.
For a moment, I consider refusing. I tell myself it would be smart to keep my distance, to wait for another angle, but that’s a lie.
This is my best chance to get closer, to see the inner circle, to chase the threads Eli never got to pull.
My thumbs move before my brain can second-guess.
Confirmed. Thank you for the invitation.
The next twenty-four hours are a blur—scraping together something formal enough to pass, rehearsing neutral smiles in the mirror. I tuck my notebook into my purse, a pencil case full of coded shorthand and backup pens.
My phone is wiped of anything personal, preloaded with a spreadsheet labeled “Content Calendar” that’s really a maze of reminders and questions for myself.
The car arrives just as snow begins to fall—fat, lazy flakes drifting down like the city itself is slowing to a hush. The driver is stone-faced, doesn’t speak except to confirm my name. We pass through Manhattan’s washed-out glare and into the country, where the roads are swallowed by trees and fog.
My reflection floats in the window, pale and taut, eyes darker than I remember. Snow piles along the shoulders, muting the world to a hush so complete it feels preordained.
The Mironov Estate rises from the woods, a silhouette of old money and fresh security. Fences cut with iron points. Walls too high for decoration.
The main drive is swept clean, flanked by armed men in thick coats—more muscle than the gala, fewer guests to distract from the fact. The car rolls to a stop beneath the covered portico.
Someone opens my door, hand gloved, voice clipped: “Welcome, Ms. Benett.”
Inside, the difference is immediate. No cameras, no press badges, no nervous foundation staff. The guests are fewer, older, their suits and jewelry understated, their faces familiar from years of research—politicians who never use their real names, oligarchs who own factories and silence.
A staffer leads me through a series of halls, past heavy doors and art that looks too ancient to touch. The dining room glows with golden sconces, opulent but cold. I’m seated closer to Adrian than I expect, just two seats down from his right. I have a perfect view of the head of the table.
The rest of the seating feels intentional—strangers arranged for power, not comfort. Most of the guests are men. Conversation is soft and precise, slipping between languages, none of them careless.
I set my phone on the table, half hidden behind my water glass, and tap notes under the guise of “social coverage.” In reality, I’m recording the code of the room: who leans in, who looks away, what kind of questions hang unsaid.
No one uses real names. Even introductions are blurred.
“Mikhail from the Foundation.”
