Page 12 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
“Our friend from Saint Petersburg.”
“The Senator.”
They talk of shipments, of votes, of favors owed and debts remembered. The air hums with a practiced unease.
A door opens behind us. The air shifts. A woman enters. She’s tall and regal, with hair like burnished copper swept intoa knot. She’s dressed in black velvet, understated but striking, diamonds at her throat and ears.
The fiancée, I realize. The woman rumored to be “untouchable.” She is beautiful, but her beauty is the kind that demands distance. I study her discreetly. She meets my eyes just once, the briefest flicker of interest—then she turns away, dismissing me as no threat.
That’s when I realize that Adrian isn’t here.
Chapter Six - Adrian
Snow clings to the estate gates, turning their ironwork soft and spectral as I pass through. I arrive late—deliberately, not that anyone here would call me on it. In my world, lateness is its own flex, a reminder that my time is worth more than theirs.
As I cross the stone threshold and hear the hum of conversation, I already regret saying yes to this dinner.
These gatherings are always the same: a performance of old loyalties and new betrayals, handshakes hiding threats, toasts concealing power plays.
I sweep through the foyer, my coat taken by a staffer who barely meets my eye. The dining room is opulence without warmth—cut crystal, gold-rimmed plates, a chandelier casting cold stars across black marble floors. The guests are arranged by status and suspicion. Conversation drops by half when I enter, replaced by a brittle expectancy.
Markian rises from his seat, lips curled into an easy grin. “Adrian. About time you graced us.” He claps me on the back with genuine affection, the only one here who would dare. My cousin, by blood and temperament, is nothing like the rest—too brash, too quick to laugh, but sharp as a blade when it matters. If I have family in this world, it’s him.
I clasp his shoulder. “Did I miss anything interesting?”
He shrugs, lowering his voice. “The usual posturing. Yelena terrorizing the staff. Petr’s trying to corner you into a joint venture again.” His eyes flick past me, always alert. “You want vodka or wine?”
“Vodka,” I say, almost smiling.
I take my place at the head of the table, nodding at the host and murmuring a few words in Russian for tradition’ssake. My mind is already elsewhere, cataloging faces, calculating motives, weighing the air for anything out of balance.
Then I see her.
Talia Benett. Her presence across the room startles me. She wasn’t on the guest list—someone from the media team must have slipped her in, probably desperate to impress. She sits near the middle, notebook open, head bowed as if she’s praying. She keeps her eyes low, careful not to catch mine.
I notice how she steals glances at the room, how her pen never quite stops moving, how she tries—futilely—to become invisible in a nest of predators.
My gaze finds her again and again, like a habit I can’t quite break. It isn’t just suspicion, though that would be reason enough. She is beautiful. Striking in her simplicity, with that wild hair tamed into a braid, lips pressed together in concentration. There’s something arresting in the way she holds herself, self-contained and alert, as if every nerve is awake. Most women here are lacquered and flawless, each movement rehearsed. Talia is something else entirely: present, watchful, real in a room where everything else is artifice.
Her beauty is not the obvious kind, and perhaps that is why it unsettles me. It’s the curve of her jaw, the darkness of her eyes, the gravity she gives to stillness. She does not try to charm; she does not perform.
That, I find, is the greatest seduction of all.
Markian notices my distraction. He follows my line of sight, grins behind his glass. “One of yours?”
I don’t take the bait. “She’s a new assignment. Quiet. Smart. A puzzle.”
He chuckles, but the look he gives Talia is more careful than teasing. He knows better than to underestimate anyone I’m interested in—even for the wrong reasons.
Dinner begins. Silverware clinks. The host’s speech is all history and pride, more for the younger generation than anyone else. Around us, the conversation becomes a blur of coded language and careful posturing. Deals are made with the lift of a glass, betrayals seeded in a glance.
I see Talia jot notes into her phone, thumb quick and discreet. “Social media prep,” she’ll claim if asked, and everyone will pretend to believe it. I watch her eyes flicker over each guest, tracing connections, making mental maps.
Yelena settles beside me, her hand slides along my shoulder as she leans down to kiss my cheek—a perfectly staged tableau. Her lips are cool and perfumed. I do not move, do not react. Our engagement was arranged by men who died before either of us could protest. It is a performance, one I have learned to endure.
Yelena is beautiful, yes, but there is poison under her skin. Vanity etched deep in her bones, manipulation like a birthright. She treats the staff as disposable, her words as whips.
I watch her dismiss a server with a flick of her hand, irritation flashing when the wine is not to her taste. Every interaction is a lesson in cruelty, played out for the guests like a ballet. I let it wash over me, giving nothing in return.
