Page 6 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
Then I slip back into the darkness of the corridor, my footsteps silent, my mind already working through contingencies and plans. I don’t like unknowns. Especially not unknowns with eyes like hers, with secrets behind every steady look.
Chapter Three - Talia
I step into my apartment just before midnight, the city outside oddly muffled by the old double-glazed windows. My feet ache, my back is stiff, but my mind feels painfully clear. Too alert for sleep, every sense still tuned to the echo of marble floors and expensive laughter. I close the door and flick the lock, then double-check it, habit more than paranoia.
I drop my camera bag on the kitchen table and pull the curtains tight. The apartment feels even emptier tonight, the faint scent of sweat and dust sharp in the air. I sit, peeling off my shoes, and reach for my camera.
The memory card is full, but I already know it contains nothing I shouldn’t have.
I made sure never to point the lens at Adrian Sharov, not even for a candid shot. He passed in and out of frame only at the periphery, a shadow in expensive black, a shape reflected in someone else’s glass. Even my nerves weren’t reckless enough to risk more.
Still, I can’t shake the way he looked at me. It was a glance, only a second, but it landed with surgical precision. He didn’t see my face. He saw straight through me, peeling back every layer of the Talia Benett mask.
I feel it again now, that chill at the base of my neck, the certainty that I’d been seen not just as a body in the room, but as a question worth asking.
I lock the camera in my desk drawer, thumb spinning the key twice before stashing it deep in my jeans pocket. Then I pull out my notebook, which is battered, spiral-bound, its pages already soft at the corners. I start to scrawl, writing fast, not caring about neatness.
Security pattern: Guards rotated every fifteen minutes, moved in pairs near the north entrance, singles by the kitchen and restrooms. Main floor always had a line of sight to the exits.
No one approached him first. Not donors, not press, not even staff. He chose who he spoke to—usually with a nod, a glance, sometimes just a tilt of his glass.
Women flirted, all polished nails and low laughs, but he never broke cool. Polite, a little bored, never let anyone close enough for more than a word or two. Rumor among the staff says he has a fiancée, someone “untouchable,” though no one’s ever seen her in public.
I circle the last line twice. I stare at the words until the ink nearly blurs. Then I add:he watches everything. Misses nothing.
Outside, a car rumbles past, headlights flashing across the ceiling. I close the notebook, tuck it under my pillow, and lie back in the dark. I’m wide awake, already replaying the night, already wondering if the lion noticed the mouse and what he might do next.
I sleep only in patches, haunted by ballroom lights and the echo of Adrian Sharov’s gaze.
***
When my work phone buzzes with a calendar invite from Eric—URGENT: Media Debrief, 8:30am—I barely have time for coffee before pulling on clean jeans and a sweater, stuffing my notebook into my bag.
The foundation’s media room is all glass and blue light. The smell of stale coffee and printer toner hangs thick as I settle at a workstation. My assignment is simple, at least on paper: sort the raw footage, trim crowd shots, and draft captions forthe event’s social posts. The foundation wants the gala to look seamless and elegant, powerful, charitable. My job is to shape the narrative, erase the blemishes.
There are hours of footage, most of it boring. Droning speeches, the swirl of dresses, donors beaming at cameras. I scrub through it, frame by frame, noting the practiced choreography of the room—security always in motion, guests herded gently away from VIP corners. I almost miss the moment that matters.
It’s a shot near the ballroom exit, timestamped just past midnight. A woman in a dark red dress stands with her back to the camera, posture tense, chin lifted in stubborn defiance. Adrian stands before her, imposing in a tailored black suit, face as unreadable as ever. The clip is almost silent, but I can see the shape of their argument in the taut lines of their bodies.
The woman’s words are sharp, her hand slicing the air once, then again, frustration etched into the tightness of her jaw.
Adrian doesn’t flinch. He listens, arms loose at his sides, gaze fixed on her with that same icy patience I saw last night. If he says anything at all, it’s quiet—a warning, maybe, or a dismissal.
She shakes her head, shoulders rigid. Her mask slips for just a heartbeat—a flash of pain, or fury, or both.
I rewind, watching it again. And again. The distance between them isn’t physical, but it’s absolute. Whatever binds them isn’t affection. Coldness radiates from his stance, the kind you can only build with years of practice. She’s beautiful, with dark hair swept up, lips painted to match her dress, but it’s clear she’s alone in that argument.
I jot a note in the margin of my worksheet:red dress—fiancée? Not happy. No warmth, only ice.
I force myself to keep working, cataloging the rest of the footage, but that image lingers. For all the rumors, the reality looks nothing like power couple perfection. Adrian Sharov commands a room with silence, but it’s the silences in his private world that seem sharpest.
My hands tremble a little as I save the clip, careful to label it only by time and location, nothing more. I know what secrets can cost.
Night air settles heavy over the city, smothering the streets in a layer of wet fog. I keep my head down as I make my way toward the Sharov archive facility—a nondescript warehouse slotted between an auto garage and a shuttered bakery downtown.
Inside, the warehouse is vast and echoing, all corrugated walls and humming fluorescent lights. Rows of steel shelves stretch deep into the gloom, stacked with banker boxes, computer towers, locked filing cabinets.
I check in at the security desk, signing my name in looping, practiced letters, and let the guard photocopy my ID badge. “Third row, left side, through the door marked Records,” he tells me, barely glancing up. “Don’t wander. There are cameras everywhere.”
