Page 25 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows propped on my knees, room lit only by the city’s restless blue glow.
I haven’t changed out of my work clothes. I haven’t eaten dinner. I just keep replaying everything. Every charged second in Adrian’s office, every word from his mouth, every time his eyes pinned me like I was the only person in the world.
The kiss. It still echoes, sharp and impossible, in the back of my mind. I remember the force of it, the way his hand gripped my waist, the taste of him, the bite of teeth and want and control. My chest tightens, shame and heat fighting for ground.
It would be easier if I could call it assault, if I could hate him cleanly, purely.
I remember the way I didn’t pull away. The way I kissed him back, hungry and unafraid.
The confrontation—his voice sliding under my skin, low and knowing.“You didn’t pull away. You wanted it.”I want to deny it, but I can’t. I see myself in his eyes: not a victim, not innocent, but a woman standing in the dark, daring him to get closer. I tell myself I’m still in control.
This is just a tactic. A method. Another way to get under his skin, to slip past his defenses. If Adrian wants to obsess, fine. Let him. I’ll use it. I’ll use him. That’s the only way this makes sense. The only way I can breathe through the mess I’ve made.
I reach for my notebook, flipping past old pages until I find the latest spread—notes rewritten and reorganized, all the angles shifting as I learn more. I scribble new names, the ones he trusts enough to meet behind closed doors, the men whose eyes flick to him for permission before they speak.
I list side businesses I’ve overheard mentioned in passing, shell companies and quiet partnerships. I’ve started mapping connections between accounts and properties, drawing lines that loop back to Adrian’s inner circle. I even keep a section for encrypted files, the ones buried in his personal drive behind biometric locks.
If I get close enough, I tell myself, he’ll let his guard down. He’ll open those doors—literal and metaphorical. He already watches me like I belong to him, like I’m some piece on his private chessboard. So let him believe it. Let him get comfortable. Let him think I’m ensnared, obsessed, half in love. The closer I get, the more he’ll show. The more I’ll see.
I write:
Get close enough for fingerprints.
Find his passcodes.
Note every name that comes up more than once.
But my focus fractures. My hand drifts to my mouth, thumb brushing my bottom lip. I hate how vivid it still feels—the ache, the bruised heat, the shock that ran all the way down my spine. I hate how real it is, how quickly my body remembers even when my mind screams to forget.
I squeeze my eyes shut, furious. This isn’t about want. This isn’t about the way I lean toward him, the way the thought of his hands makes me shiver in the dark. This is about Eli. About the hollow in my life where my brother should be. About the promise I made myself—that I will not rest until I know what happened. Until I have proof. Until Adrian Sharov’s empire burns or bends or begs for mercy.
I force myself to keep working. I list the security staff who linger near his office, the times of day when his routine shifts, the small details he lets slip when he thinks no one is listening.I sketch the pattern of his trust, trying to find the weakest link. I write questions:
Who else knows about Cyprus?
What happened on the twelfth?
Why did he switch cars last week?
Each note is another stone in the wall I build to keep myself steady. Each line reminds me why I’m here, what’s at stake, what I can’t afford to lose.
I can’t stop the small betrayals. The way my fingers keep tracing my lips, the way my mind drifts to the memory of his mouth on mine. The way my heart speeds up whenever I remember the pressure of his body, the heat of his hands.
I slam the notebook shut, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes until the afterimage of the lamp burns red and gold across my vision.
“Stop it,” I whisper to myself, voice raw and desperate. “This isn’t about you. This isn’t about him. You don’t get to want.”
I think of Eli. I think of his easy smile, the way he used to tease me for my stubbornness. I think of the last message he sent, the one I have memorized by heart.
If I go quiet, assume the worst. Keep your head down, Tali. Trust nobody.
That’s the truth. That’s what matters. I am not here for desire. I am not here to be claimed or wanted or loved. I am here for answers. For justice. For the brother who vanished into the night and never came home.
I set the notebook aside, climb into bed without turning off the lamp, and stare up at the ceiling. My body is restless, aching in ways I wish I could forget. I pull the blankets tighterand focus on the steady rhythm of my breath, on the anger that still burns beneath the surface.
I am in control, I tell myself. I will not lose sight of the truth. I will not let him ruin me, not the way he ruined Eli.
I sit alone in the hush of my room, the city noise held at bay by old glass and heavy curtains.
