Page 60 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
I keep Eli’s postcards in a small box on my desk, each one a talisman against the life I thought I’d lost. Sometimes, when Adrian finds me rereading them, he sits beside me in silence, his hand covering mine, the two of us bound together by everything we almost didn’t survive.
The story I’m working on is hard. Stories about children and care homes always are. But I have sources who trust me, editors who respect me, and a partner who believes in the work. There’s no trace of the old adrenaline, the need to break the Bratva or expose every secret. My life is no longer a campaign for revenge. It’s a daily choice: to build, to heal, to fight for things that matter.
Some mornings, I catch myself staring out the window, surprised at how peaceful I feel. I never imagined this: the quiet, the safety, the slow-growing trust. There’s still a part of me that waits for the other shoe to drop, for the old darkness to seep back in. But it hasn’t. Maybe it won’t.
Adrian’s hand slides up from my thigh, brushing the edge of my robe. “How’s the story?” he asks, voice warm with sleep.
“Getting there,” I reply, smiling up at him. “It’s good work.”
He nods, brushing a kiss against my forehead before returning to his own day: calls to make, meetings to take, a world to keep in line. Always, always, he circles back to me.
After breakfast, we walk together down the street to the bakery, his arm slung over my shoulder. People look, but no one stares. We buy pastries, argue about whether to take a tripnext month, share easy laughter and long glances. The city keeps rushing by, but we hold to our own rhythm.
At night, when the lights go out and the world is quiet again, Adrian pulls me close, tracing lines on my skin that spell out everything he can’t always say. I let myself want him, let myself be wanted, and together we make something new—something that belongs to us alone.
A year ago, I thought love was a battlefield, that safety was a fantasy and happiness a weakness. Now I know better. Now I know it’s a choice we keep making, morning after morning, as the city wakes and the world spins on.
In the hush before dawn, with Adrian’s hand in mine and Eli’s postcard waiting on my desk, I finally, truly believe I am free.
***
The day I’m set to publish my story, the city wakes gray and soft. The light slants through rain-streaked windows as I move through the kitchen, the warmth of the kettle settling me into the ritual of morning.
I brew my tea and settle on the velvet couch, laptop at my side, the hum of traffic muffled behind thick glass. The cursor blinks at the end of my last paragraph. I let myself reread my opening line one more time, nerves and hope fluttering in my chest.
Shadows still linger at the edge of my world.
Sometimes Yelena’s name pops up in the oddest ways. Someone claims she’s in Finland, under psychiatric observation; others say she vanished with a minor oligarch.
I’ve stopped caring. That chapter ended so quietly, I sometimes wonder if it really happened at all. I no longer write about ghosts or vendettas. My energy is for illumination,dragging buried truth out into the sun. My work is for survivors, for children, for people caught in systems that want them to disappear.
Now I write with my real name at the top of the page. No aliases. No hiding. I am the woman who stands at international panels, fearless, and I wear my curves and my history without apology. The girl who once drowned herself in oversized sweaters and shame is gone.
The apartment hums with the small, sturdy rhythms of the life Adrian and I have built.
Adrian appears in the kitchen, all sleepy hair and bare feet, presses a kiss to my forehead, and murmurs, “You’ll do good.”
He never hovers, never tries to shape my story. He just clears the path when it gets too heavy, quiets obstacles before they reach my door. His power is immense, but for me it’s always gentle, protective. He terrifies a room with a glance, but when he looks at me, it’s with reverence, as if he’s still a little in awe that I chose him back.
He returns to his office, the door clicking softly behind him. His world spins on—calls, meetings, a kingdom to maintain. My own work is a different sort of fight. My fingers move over the keys, focused and determined, every word a step toward justice, not vengeance. The past gave me a voice.
Adrian gave me a future.
Every sentence I write now is for someone else’s survival, someone else’s chance.
I proofread one last time, double-check every quote, and then I hit Send. The draft flies off to my editor. There’s always a moment of anxiety—a flicker of doubt, a secret hope—but it passes. I did the work. I did it right.
Outside, the rain fades and the city brightens. I open the window for fresh air. From Adrian’s office, I hear his voice in Russian, sharp and sure, but never harsh with me. I let the silence settle. I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop anymore. I survived. We survived.
Adrian returns with coffee, sets it at my elbow.
“Did you publish?” he asks.
“I did,” I tell him, smiling. My nerves flutter, but I feel proud. “It’s out.”
He sits beside me, his arm heavy and comforting across my shoulders. There’s no need for more words. He just pulls me close. I lean into him, letting myself feel the weight of the moment. The future I never thought I’d have is here.
My inbox dings with a note from my editor:It’s brilliant. You’re leading the conversation, Talia. I’m proud of you.
