Page 8 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
The fire is more for effect than comfort. Flames reflect against the glass, casting ripples of gold along the lacquered bookshelves and the deep green velvet of the old armchairs.
I stand with my back to the hearth, report in hand, gaze tracing the lines of text for the third time. The same story: a girl caught in a restricted records office, after hours, no proper clearance.
She was careful, methodical. Knew where to look. Didn’t trip any cameras, but missed the alarm on the frame—one of Miroslav’s additions, overlooked by everyone else. That alone tells me more than her resume ever will.
I look up as the door clicks open. Miroslav enters first, broad shoulders nearly filling the frame, a silhouette carved from old grudges and loyalty.
He steps aside to reveal her—Talia Benett, if that’s her real name. The girl from the gala, now stripped of her media badge and office camouflage. In the sterile glare of foundation lighting she looked older, colder.
Here, with the firelight casting shadows under her eyes, she looks young. Almost soft. Her coat is buttoned all the way to her neck, hands folded around her bag. She’s wary, but not panicked. She scans the room, the corners, me. Her chin lifts half an inch.
I study her in silence, letting the quiet thicken. Miroslav stands beside her until I nod, then withdraws, a living threat just behind the door. The room shrinks to the two of us, my estate humming with silence, the fire snapping softly behind my back.
She doesn’t speak first. That earns her a sliver of respect.
I keep my tone level. “Who sent you?”
She doesn’t blink. “I was told the records team needed assistance. I didn’t know it was restricted.” The words are even, measured.
She’s lying, but she’s polished the story until it glows with the friction of truth. No fidgeting. No dropped gaze. She’s done this before.
I don’t show my disappointment. Lies are common currency here, but hers is different. She sells it as if it cost her something. I wonder how many times she’s had to practice. How many masks she keeps in her drawer, waiting for nights like this.
I let the silence linger, the way I would with a subordinate who’s made a clever mistake. I cross to the desk and set the report down, fingers drumming the edge of the page.
“What’s your name again?”
“Talia Benett,” she answers, the consonants clipped and clear.
I nod, like that matters. We both know it doesn’t.
Her background check sits open on my tablet. It’s as clean as a newly minted passport. Student credentials, volunteer stints, a handful of glowing references from people who never quite answer their phones.
She’s not flagged in any agency list. Not a journalist. Not a known activist, not police, not a rival syndicate’s canary in a coal mine. Everything checks out—on paper.
Instinct is an older thing, and mine won’t let go. She was too quiet at the gala, too skilled at being overlooked. Now she’s here, standing in my house, watching me with eyes that reflect the firelight and nothing else.
I move to the window, glance at her reflection in the glass. “You know what happens to people who break into my records.”
She doesn’t move. Her breathing is steady, her posture contained. She’s good at this. Maybe not a natural, but close enough. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. If you want to fire me, I understand.”
There’s an undertone—she’s already considered worse outcomes. She’s planned for them.
I step back, fold my arms. “You aren’t stupid. If you were, you’d be at the police station, or in a shallow ditch outside the city. So, let’s try this again. What were you looking for?”
A pause. I watch her jaw work, the flicker of something—anger, maybe, or grief—before she clamps it down. “Nothing. I was curious about the old payroll files. They said there were gaps in the digital logs. I thought I could help.”
It’s a weak cover, but she holds it. She’s rehearsed every detail, layered her lies with scraps of possible truth. I recognize the technique; it’s one I’ve used myself, long before I wore bespoke suits and people called me “sir” with their heads down.
I sit. The fire hisses behind me. The room settles into an old rhythm—hunter and hunted, predator and prey, only the lines aren’t so clear. She’s not cowering, not even sweating. That makes her dangerous.
“I had your background checked,” I say, watching her for a flinch. “You’re not in any database. No enemies. No debts. Your story fits, but I don’t believe in coincidence, Miss Benett. Not when someone as quiet as you ends up in my house.”
She lifts her chin again. There’s a challenge in it, a dare, something reckless and alive. “I’m sorry if it looks suspicious. It was a mistake. If you want me gone, say so.”
She’s trying to reclaim the narrative, to control the ending. I almost admire it.
“Who are you really?” I ask, voice quieter now. “You’re not the average intern.”
