Page 45 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
I wander the halls in slow circles, restless and silent, listening for footsteps, watching for the flicker of movement from his men.
Every room smells faintly of polish and secrets. My mind races with old questions and new suspicions.
I tell myself I’m just walking to clear my head, but I can’t deny what I’m searching for—truth, even if it hurts.
My feet carry me to the oldest wing of the estate, where the stone floors are uneven and the ceilings press low.
Most of the doors are locked and undisturbed, but as I pass one of the back offices, I notice the door standing slightly ajar. Light falls in a broken strip across the dusty rug. This room is rarely used. Everyone avoids it except for the estate’s old accountant and, sometimes, Miroslav.
A heavy ring of keys sits abandoned on the edge of the desk, glinting in the fading light. I hesitate—long enough for caution to whisper warnings—but the need for answers drowns out my fear. I slip inside, closing the door until only a thin crack lets in the hall light. My heart thuds in my ears.
I move straight to the file cabinet tucked near the back wall, half hidden beneath a pile of disused ledgers. The cabinet is rusted at the hinges but still sturdy.
I flip through the keys, hands shaking, testing each one until finally the lock gives with a soft click.
Inside, the folders are organized in a language of codes, initials, and dates that mean nothing to me at first. Most are faded with age, some so brittle I’m afraid to touch them. I skim labels, searching for anything that feels wrong, anything that feels familiar.
My fingers freeze on a folder whose edges are scorched, the label half burned away. It looks like someone tried to destroy it but didn’t finish the job. I draw it out, careful not to make noise. The papers inside are charred at the top, the ink running in places from water or fire. I sift through them, my breath growing shallow.
Transfer records. Facility names, most of them blacked out or abbreviated. Lists of dates and initials. I barely understand half of it—until I see one page with a margin note in hurried, desperate handwriting:
E.R.
Just two letters, but it’s enough to cut me open.
Eli Rivers. My brother.
I sink onto the edge of the desk, the folder clutched tight in my fist. Relief floods through me, wild and dizzying—he’s alive, he was alive, he made it out.
Almost instantly the relief curdles, twisting with betrayal so deep I taste it in the back of my throat. Adrian knew. Maybe not everything, maybe not every detail, but he knew enough to let me believe Eli was gone. He buried the truth, protected someone, maybe himself.
My hands tremble as I turn page after page, searching for the rest of the story. The records are fragmentary, some pages missing, others scorched into uselessness. The pattern is clear.
There are names I half recognize from overheard conversations, dates that line up with the months after Eli disappeared. I find a transfer slip with the same code as one of Adrian’s shell companies. Everything I never wanted to be true unravels right here in my hands.
My knees go weak. I stagger back from the desk, the folder threatening to slip from my grasp. My vision swims as I try to piece together the timeline. Eli wasn’t murdered; he was erased, disappeared, hidden by the very man I let into my bed, the man who claimed me, marked me.
I want to scream. I want to smash every file, every lock, every secret this house has ever kept. I know how to survive—how to make it out with the truth. I shove the folder back into the drawer, hands shaking, careful to replace the keys exactly where I found them. I smooth my hair, wipe the tears from my cheeks, force my breath to steady.
Then I slip out, closing the door softly behind me, the weight of the secrets burning in my chest.
The hall outside is empty. I move quickly, heart pounding, unable to look at the guards as I pass. Every face is a threat now. Every shadow holds another lie.
When I finally reach the sanctuary of my own room, I bolt the door and sink to the floor, the world tilting around me. Adrian didn’t kill Eli—but he destroyed him in a different way. He let me grieve, let me crawl to him, let me beg for scraps of truth while he buried my brother’s trail in fire and silence.
My hands curl into fists. Anger flares hot, cutting through the grief, the shame, the want. I won’t be silent anymore. I won’t be used. Not by Adrian, not by anyone in this house.
First, I have to decide: Do I confront him? Do I run? Or do I wait, gather more, and strike when he least expects it?
The answer throbs in my chest—raw, uncertain, but sharper than before. I wipe my eyes, square my shoulders, and force myself to breathe. For Eli. For me.
One thing is clear: nothing in this house is what it seems. Adrian Sharov has no idea what I’m willing to do to get my brother back.
***
That night, the mansion feels colder than ever. The storm has passed, but the air is heavy, pressed down with the weight of secrets I can’t ignore anymore.
I move through the hours like a ghost, saying nothing to the staff, not even nodding to the guards who glance at me from the corners of their eyes.
