Page 23 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
When the meeting ends, the team filters out in twos and threes. I stand, gather my papers, take my time. Talia moves quickly, wanting to slip out before anyone can catch her, but she turns too fast and nearly collides with me in the corridor outside the conference room.
She pulls up short, face flushed, eyes wide. I do not step back. I do not apologize. I simply look down at her, waiting. The silence is thick, heavy with everything unspoken.
“We need to talk,” she says, voice sharper than I’ve ever heard it.
I raise an eyebrow, deliberately calm. “Then talk.”
She hesitates, then squares her shoulders. “Not here.”
For a moment we just stand there, measuring each other. Something dangerous simmers in the space between us. Something neither of us trusts, but neither of us will walk away from.
Without another word, I turn and start down the hall toward my office. I do not look back. I know she will follow.
I hear the quick tap of her shoes behind me, every footstep punctuated by that tension that has become our private language. My office door swings shut behind us, sealing us in together.
I do not offer her a chair. I do not move to the other side of the desk. Instead, I wait, close enough that I can see the faint flush on her throat, the way she forces her breathing even.
The anticipation between us hums: bright, sharp, impossible to ignore.
She stares up at me, lips pressed tight. I see her searching for the right words, the right weapon, the right truth to hurl. I know her now—know that she does not bluff, that her silences are not submission, that every word she chooses is deliberate.
The office is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic through the windows, the faint shudder of her breath.
She is going to speak. She is going to demand answers. I am ready to give them—at least the parts of them she has earned.
Talia stands with her arms folded, back straight, chin lifted in a challenge. For a moment, the only sound in the office is the faint tick of the old clock and the distant, muffled city beyond the windows.
The quiet grows sharp, razor-edged.
“You have a fiancée,” Talia says finally. Her voice doesn’t shake. “And you still kissed me.”
I hold her gaze, unflinching. “You didn’t pull away.”
She blinks, stunned for just a heartbeat. Her jaw clenches. “That’s not the point.”
I step closer, slow and measured, feeling the tension stretch between us like a live wire. “Isn’t it?” I ask, voice soft but relentless. “You wanted it.”
For a moment she says nothing, but her eyes flicker. I see the heat there, the refusal to surrender, the way her denial tangles with memory. She stands her ground, proud, but I see the way her breath hitches, the way she can’t quite mask the flush on her cheeks.
I circle around her, deliberately slow, a predator measuring his prey. My footsteps are the only thing moving in the thick, suspended air.
I pause just behind her, lowering my voice to a whisper. “You think I’m the one playing games?”
She turns toward me, eyes flashing—anger and longing burning together, twin flames. She looks like she might strike me or pull me closer, and for a moment I want her to do both. I want to see how far she’ll go, how far she’ll let herself fall.
I do not touch her. Not this time. I straighten, let the coldness return to my posture, force distance back into the space between us. I see the way her chest rises and falls, how her fists curl at her sides.
“You’re not as innocent as you pretend,” I say quietly.
The words hang between us, the final blow. I turn, feeling her eyes on my back, and walk to the door.
She says nothing, but the room vibrates with everything unsaid. I know she’s watching, struggling to control the chaos I leave behind.
I pause, hand on the knob. “There’s no future in this, Talia.”
She flinches, just barely. “I know,” she whispers, voice rough.
I let the silence stretch, holding her in it, making sure she understands. Then I open the door and step into the corridor, the heavy panel closing with a soft but decisive click.
