Page 13 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
She takes the seat to my left, crossing her legs, diamond-shod foot tapping impatiently. She glances at Talia, assessing, already cataloging competition, even if she has no reason to. That is Yelena’s way. She senses challenge before it’s named. I know the way her mind works: charm the ones she needs, destroy the ones she doesn’t. I have long since tired of her games.
I feel the irritation simmer in my chest, masked by stillness. The only sign is the way my fingers tap once, silent against the linen napkin.
Markian distracts me with a story—something about a botched shipment in Novosibirsk, made comic by his drawl and pantomime. The table laughs, tension breaking for a moment. But my mind keeps circling back to Talia. The way she tries not to be seen, the way she cannot help but watch. The way she surprises me, every time.
The dinner drags on, each course a new opportunity for coded conversation, for power to shift hands beneath the tablecloth. I drink little, eat less, let the talk flow around me. I observe. I collect debts.
Every so often, I catch Talia looking at me. When our eyes meet, she looks away too quickly, as if scalded by the attention. I wonder what she thinks she sees.
Yelena whispers a cutting remark in my ear—something about the “media girl,” meant to provoke. I don’t take the bait. Let her preen and poison the air; I have no use for it tonight. My thoughts are elsewhere.
The second course is served: venison, bloodred and perfect, the kind of meal meant to signal both wealth and the capacity for violence.
Silver forks glint under the chandelier as the servers glide between us, faces careful, movements drilled to the edge of invisibility.
Conversation softens around the arrival of food. It is always this way—business retreats, masks slip for a moment, knives sharpened under the surface while everyone pretends to relax.
My eyes find Talia again before I can stop myself. She’s sitting almost directly across the table, posture straight but not stiff, her hands folded on the tablecloth beside her phone. She has that look again. She’s only half listening, half elsewhere, but never truly distracted. Every detail, she takes in, turning it over in her mind.
I realize too late that I am staring. Yelena notices. Of course she does. She is sharp as acid and twice as corrosive. She leans close, her voice pitched low so only I can hear, but bright enough that the malice shines right through.
“That girl with the cheap blouse and big eyes… is she our future press secretary?”
She laughs, a sound as brittle as shattered glass. It’s a performance for the table, gentle mockery, a harmless joke. Beneath the surface is venom, pure and undiluted. Yelena’s hand lands lightly on my forearm, the weight of diamonds cool and deliberate. I keep my face neutral, but my jaw tightens by a fraction. The only sign I give her that I even register her game.
Yelena’s nails trace small, idle patterns on my skin as she leans in further, lowering her voice to a whisper only I can hear. “Or perhaps you have a new taste for shy little journalists. You always did like your projects.” Her tone is sweet, but the words bite.
I do not reply. There is nothing to say that will not give her more ammunition, and I have learned, painfully, that you do not win by playing Yelena’s games. You win by refusing to play at all. I withdraw my arm from her touch with practiced subtlety, picking up my fork and slicing the venison with calm, mechanical precision.
Yelena’s attention shifts, but not before she flicks her eyes toward Talia, narrowing them in calculation. She will remember this. She remembers every slight, every shift in attention.
I feel a surge of irritation—not because I care about her jealousy, but because it means Talia will not go unnoticed tonight. Yelena is territorial. Cruelty is her sport, and she enjoys fresh prey.
I look toward Talia again. She does not flinch under Yelena’s gaze, nor mine. Her head is slightly bowed, her hair falling forward, casting a shadow over her features. She does not speak, does not even glance up, but there is something in the stillness of her hands, the set of her shoulders, that does not read as submission.
It reads as calculation, as restraint. As if she is listening not for approval, but for the crack in the façade, the moment the table’s attention shifts.
I have seen many types of fear at this table—genuine terror, feigned indifference, arrogance masquerading as bravery. What Talia shows is none of those. She is careful, not cowed. That difference unsettles me. It draws me back to her, again and again, as if I might solve the puzzle if I stare long enough.
Yelena picks up her wine, swirling it slowly, eyes never leaving Talia. “You know, darling,” she says, her voice pitched just above the general conversation, “we should really put the new girl to work. Surely someone as observant as she is could help us manage all these… public perceptions.”
Another delicate laugh, this one meant for the wider audience, calculated to be just ambiguous enough. I can feel the table’s attention shift, the curiosity sharpen. Some glance Talia’s way, others toward me, measuring my silence for cracks.
Markian snorts softly into his napkin, catching my eye. He raises one brow as if to say,You’re on your own here, cousin.He knows Yelena too well to offer rescue.
I turn back to my meal, not bothering to respond to Yelena’s latest provocation.
Talia’s silence is more effective than any retort—she gives Yelena nothing, not even the satisfaction of a reaction. I suspect that frustrates Yelena even more than open defiance would have.
Across the table, Talia finally shifts. She sets her fork down and picks up her phone, thumb moving quickly over the screen, ostensibly checking her notes for the evening’s social coverage, but I see the way her eyes flick toward Yelena, just once, before returning to her task.
She’s cataloging the threat, adding it to a private ledger somewhere behind her careful expression.
The course continues, conversation picking up again around politics and supply chains and the finer points of imported wine.
I nod where required, offer the occasional word to Petr or one of his sons, but my mind keeps drifting back to Talia’s composure, the way she refuses to bend even under Yelena’s scrutiny.
After a time, Yelena loses interest, her attention snagging on a passing compliment from a Czech banker with more money than sense. She turns, her laughter too bright, too sharp, and I exhale quietly, letting the tension bleed away.
