Page 47 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
I freeze the tape as she lingers over one page, her fingers white-knuckled, her lips moving. I zoom in, trying to see what she reads, but it’s obscured: charred, blurred, the camera too far to catch the words. But her face tells me enough: shock, grief, the hard flicker of something like hope. And then she bolts, careful as a professional, gone before anyone can catch her.
I watch the footage again and again, my anger mounting with every second. My mind runs through every conversation, every touch, every look we’ve shared. Was it all a lie? Every night in my bed, every word from her mouth?
My phone buzzes. The lieutenant, again. This time his voice is even lower, tight with nerves. “Sir, you said to dig. I… I found something. It’s not good.”
I grit my teeth. “Show me.”
He sends the file. I open it and the blood drains from my face. Talia Benett: no history, no family, no trace before last year. Talia Rivers… that record is harder to bury. Sister of Elijah Rivers. Former investigative journalist, disappeared after digging too deep into Bratva-linked money laundering. The man who nearly brought down half our network, who was silenced—removed, hidden, locked away on my order.
The truth clicks into place, sharp and final. The woman in my bed, the one I just married, is the sister of the man I helped destroy.
She’s been in my house, in my bed, whispering secrets, learning routines, plotting. Waiting for her chance.
A cold fury settles in my chest, deeper than anything I’ve felt in years. I let her in. I let her close. I almost let myself believe it was real.
I lean back, watching the city lights flicker through the rain. Every memory I have of her feels poisoned now: her laughter, her touch, the defiant spark in her eyes. I wanted the truth from her. I wanted everything she had to give.
All along, she was here for one reason. Revenge. Justice. Maybe both.
The betrayal is almost elegant. If it weren’t aimed at me, I could admire it.
I open the footage again, freezing on the moment she clutches that scorched folder to her chest. I know what she found. I know what she’s about to do.
For a moment, I want to storm upstairs, drag her out of bed, demand answers with my hands, with my anger, with every weapon I know how to wield. But I force myself to wait. I need to be sure. I need to know what she’ll do next. Whether she’ll run, or fight, or finally tell me the truth herself.
I pour another glass, though my hands are shaking now, and sit in the dark, letting the weight of her betrayal crush every soft, foolish part of me that ever thought she could be mine.
She was never mine. Not really. She was always Elijah Rivers’s sister. She was always the threat I should have seen coming.
The burn of vodka hits the back of my throat as I down the last of it, harsh enough to sting, but not enough to numb the storm inside my chest.
I slam the empty glass down and stare at the city lights flickering through rain-streaked windows. There is no comfort here. No safety. Only the bitter clarity that comes from being outplayed in your own house.
I don’t wait for morning. I need to see her. I need to know what she’ll say—if she’ll even bother to lie to my face again. Imove through the mansion with the silent certainty of a man who owns every stone, every shadow, every secret.
Tonight, the house feels foreign. The air is charged, thick with everything that’s been left unsaid.
I find her outside my quarters, pacing in the dark, her silhouette outlined by the slant of hallway light. Her hair is wild, her face pale, shoulders squared with rage and purpose. For a moment I just watch her. This woman I thought I could claim, this enemy I let into my bed.
She stops when she sees me, trembling with fury, her hands balled into fists at her sides. The air between us splits wide open, raw and electric.
“Where is he?” she demands, voice cracking. “Where is Eli?” She steps closer, every inch of her trembling with grief and rage. Her eyes are blazing, searching mine for something I know she won’t find.
I say nothing. I watch her, letting the silence stretch. I want her to see it: the truth, the regret, the line I never meant to cross.
She shoves me, hard enough to make me take a step back. “You knew, Adrian. You fucking knew!” Her voice breaks, tears shining in her eyes, anger and betrayal warring across her face.
I grab her wrist—not harshly, but firm enough to keep her from running, from turning her back on me completely. I feel her pulse racing under my fingers, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” she chokes, voice thick with pain. “You let me think he was dead. You let me crawl to you, beg for scraps of truth, and all this time—”
My grip loosens, and she yanks her hand away, glaring at me with a hatred so pure it almost steals my breath. I want totell her everything. I want to lie. I want to drag her into my arms and make her forget every lie, every secret, every scar I have ever given her.
I do nothing. I let her hurt, let her hate me, let her feel every ounce of the betrayal that stands between us now. I do not speak. There are no words left. She deserves the truth, but I have protected that truth so long it’s fused with every part of me.
She turns away. I don’t stop her. I don’t chase her as she disappears down the hall, her footsteps echoing off the stone, carrying her farther from me than she’s ever been. My hands are still clenched, jaw tight, fury and longing burning through me in equal measure.
She is my wife, my greatest vulnerability, my sharpest threat. She just became my enemy. And still, still, I want her more than I can bear.
