Page 19 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
Her professionalism is a shield, but I see the question behind it. Why are you here, Adrian? What do you want from me?
I could make up a reason—ask for a summary, a correction, another meaningless task. For once, I don’t want to lie. I settle for the truth I can live with.
“You work too hard,” I say, softer than I intended.
She gives a small, rueful smile. “So do you.”
There’s a long, charged silence. I step further into the room, drawn by something neither of us wants to name. The space between us is small, suddenly intimate.
I notice the freckles on her collarbone, the uneven bite of her nails, the way her breath quickens as I approach.
“I could order you to go home,” I say.
She doesn’t look away. “You could.”
Another challenge. I almost smile. This is the dance we do now—measuring boundaries, daring the other to break them.
Instead of giving her an order, I lean against the desk, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her. “Why do you stay late?”
She hesitates. Not long, but enough for me to notice. “Sometimes it’s easier to think when everyone else is gone. Fewer distractions.”
I nod, understanding more than she intends. “That’s true.”
She looks up at me fully, her eyes dark and direct. “You’re here late too.”
I can’t help it. My hand moves to rest on the back of her chair, fingers curling against the worn leather. The contact is nothing, but it feels charged. She doesn’t flinch.
“For the same reason, maybe,” I say. “Some work needs quiet.”
She nods, but I see it, her guard dropping, just a fraction, enough to let something hungry through. Something that matches the feeling gnawing at me.
We stay like that for a long, suspended moment. Not touching, but close. Not speaking, but everything important hanging between us.
I know I should pull away. I know every second I linger is a risk, a weakness. I can’t make myself do it. Instead, I watch her. She watches me back.
She finally breaks eye contact, looking down at her work. The spell shatters, but the charge lingers.
I straighten, stepping back but not away. “Send the report when you’re done. No rush.”
She nods, fingers trembling on the keyboard. “Of course, sir.”
The formality should be a wall, but it isn’t. Not anymore.
I leave the room, but the image of her—backlit by lamplight, lips parted in concentration, eyes bright with defiance—burns behind my eyelids the entire journey home.
I don’t allow distractions. For her, I am starting to make an exception.
That, I know, is the most dangerous thing of all.
Chapter Nine - Talia
My eyes ache from the glow of the monitor. The office is quiet, only the hum of electronics and the distant murmur of city life filtering through the glass.
I hunch over my keyboard, scrolling quickly through document after document. This is the fourth night in a row I have stayed late, chasing digital threads no one wanted found. I have gotten better at this, at moving unseen, at slipping into drives and folders where my name should never appear.
Most of what I find is mundane. Budget spreadsheets, meeting minutes, travel receipts. Tonight, something shifts. I stumble across a folder mislabeled as “Supplier Invoices.”
Inside, a series of transfers and memos—names I recognize from whispered warnings, shell companies tied to addresses in Cyprus, vague notations about “special shipments” and “discretion payments.”
