Page 27 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
“You must,” Miroslav says, his voice as close to amusement as it ever gets. “It would look strange if you didn’t show to your own event. The Chernikovs are making a rare appearance. So is the press. Yelena is already preparing.”
I stare at the windows for a long moment, watching as the sun sinks behind the estate’s black iron gates. The city will be bright tonight, all the old power brokers and new rivals circling, searching for weaknesses. I do not like being on display. But there are expectations that come with this life, and power is maintained as much by appearance as by force.
Miroslav lingers, watching me as if he expects an argument. I simply nod, accepting my fate. “Send a car for seven,” I say. “Remind the staff I want the list of guests in my hand before I leave. No surprises.”
He nods. “And Talia?”
I look up, holding his gaze. “She’s to be on duty. She’ll accompany the press team. That’s all.”
He studies me, eyes sharp. “Is that wise?”
“If I didn’t trust her to do her job,” I reply, voice flat, “she wouldn’t be here.” That is all the answer he’ll get.
He gives a short, satisfied nod, then turns to leave. When the door clicks shut behind him, I let my head fall back against the chair, closing my eyes.
Another night, another mask. Another battlefield where the only weapons are silence and secrets.
I suppose it is fitting. After all, I have always been better at dancing with wolves than with saints.
***
The ballroom shimmers with opulence, every surface reflecting the gold of old money and the sharper gleam of ambition. Crystal chandeliers rain fractured light across velvet dresses and polished shoes, while orchestral strings tangle with laughter, with the clink of glasses and the low, coded exchanges of men who never say what they mean.
This is the Sharov family’s kingdom—a world balanced between tradition and threat, power and pretense. Tonight, business and family mingle.
There are Bratva men with cold eyes and wedding bands. There are wives who know exactly what their husbands do, and a few who choose not to know at all.
I stand at the edge, half shadowed by a marble pillar, letting the spectacle pass over me. I nod when required. I say little. I scan every entrance, every knot of conversation, every guest I do not fully trust. There are many. I study the faces, measuring smiles, catching the flicker of secrets behind the eyes. There is safety in distance, in being the observer rather than the observed.
Then I see her.
Talia stands near the foot of the grand staircase, wrapped in a black dress that is at once simple and devastating. Her hair is loose tonight, wild curls tumbling over her shoulders, catching the light every time she moves. Her lips glint under the chandeliers, glossed and perfect, a detail that should be unremarkable, but tonight it is all I can see.
She laughs at something, tipping her head back, baring the smooth line of her throat. The sound cuts through the music and lodges somewhere deep inside me.
Talia is not alone. She is speaking to one of my cousins’ assistants, a boy too new to the game, all tailored confidence and eager smiles, with no sense of the wolves at his back. He stands too close to her, his body turned to face her fully, his smile a little too bold. Talia rewards him with a smirk, her eyes alive with mischief and challenge. She is enjoying this.
I watch her, unable to look away. She is more radiant than any woman in the room, though her dress is less ornate,her jewels more modest. She holds herself with a poise that is entirely her own.
Then, as if she senses my stare—and I know she does—she turns, catches my eyes, and holds them.
She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t even blink. Instead, she lifts her chin, her mouth curving with the kind of smile that says she knows every thought in my head, every secret I wish she didn’t. She leans in to whisper something to her companion, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.
I watch as she slides her arm through his, locking it tight.
A flash of heat tears through me, fierce and unexpected. My jaw tightens, my grip on the glass in my hand going white-hot. I tell myself it is nothing. That she is free to speak to whom she likes. That this is all part of her role tonight, part of her act.
My blood knows better. The possessiveness that surges in me is primal, raw. I want to tear the boy away from her. I want to claim her for myself, in front of everyone, consequences be damned.
She knows exactly what she is doing.
Our eyes are still locked. Her smile only deepens, full of challenge and provocation. She tips her head in mock salute, daring me to come closer, to make a scene, to reveal myself. The ballroom blurs around us.
For a moment, there is only her, only the memory of her mouth and the promise in her gaze.
My heart hammers in my chest, hot with anger, hotter with want. I try to remember my place, my control. The game.
Talia sets fire to every rule I’ve ever lived by. I am not a man who loses himself. I am not a man who shows his hand, who acts on impulse or jealousy. Yet tonight, every instinct I havescreams that she is mine, and that I will not let her slip from my grasp.
