Page 14 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

Miroslav finds me in my office late in the afternoon, carrying a tablet, his posture tight and efficient. He knocks once before entering, but he never waits for permission. He stands by my desk, scrolling through messages I have not had the patience to check.

“There’s the matter of tonight’s event,” he says, voice even. “The spring charity ball. You’re expected to attend.”

I look up from the contract I am pretending to read, my patience already worn thin from a day of pointless reports and petty crises. “What ball?” I ask, too sharp.

Miroslav doesn’t flinch. “The Bratva’s spring ball, at the old Zolotov estate. You organized it yourself, last year.”

A flicker of irritation sparks in my chest. I have no memory of doing so. The days bleed together—meetings, threats, a thousand obligations I would rather delegate than endure. “Did I?” I ask, tone cold. “I do not recall.”

Miroslav shrugs, setting the tablet on the edge of my desk. “It’s on your calendar. Yelena’s people have confirmed her dress fitting twice.”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. The thought of a crowded ballroom, of handshakes and veiled threats wrapped in expensive smiles, holds no appeal. I would rather spend the night in solitude or at least somewhere I can control the outcome. “If I must go, I’ll go.”

“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 have screams that she is mine, and that I will not let her slip from my grasp.

I force myself to move, to blend into the crowd, to do what is expected.

I greet the elders, accept a toast from Yelena’s father, shake hands with two of my uncles, each one testing for weakness in my grip.

But the entire time, my eyes stray back to Talia, drawn by her laughter, by the line of her arm curled around another man’s, by the way she owns every inch of her skin.

Yelena drifts to my side, perfume thick and cloying. She murmurs something about the guest list, about new money, old enemies, all the politics I am supposed to care about. I answer in half-truths, never breaking my watch on the woman who is unravelling me from across the room.

She keeps the boy close, keeps the game going. She wants me to see. She wants me to burn.

Tonight, all my control is a brittle shell. The heat she stirs in me is dangerous, reckless. I want her more than I want the power that built this room. I want her in ways that would ruin us both.

As the waltz begins and the crowd begins to spin, I make a silent promise to myself. If she wants to play with fire, I will not look away. I will not let her win so easily.

Behind me, heels click sharp and steady across the marble, slicing through the waltz and laughter.

I hear Yelena before I see her. A perfume cloud drifting over my shoulder, a gloved hand slipping around my elbow for the cameras.

Her smile is flawless, rehearsed, but her eyes are sharpened to points. She sees everything. She always has.

“Such a beautiful night,” she says, her voice honey-sweet for the people watching. “Don’t you think, Adrian?”

I nod, not bothering to turn. “It is.”

She leans in, her whisper meant only for me. “You’re very distracted, tonight. I’d almost think you were jealous.” Her fingers dig in, just a fraction too hard, masked by her pose.

I look at her then. “Of whom?”

She follows my gaze across the ballroom, her eyes landing on Talia. She’s still laughing, still draped over my cousin’s assistant like she owns the moment. Yelena’s jaw tightens, her smile slipping at the edges.

“She’s bold,” she says quietly. “You let your pets off the leash, they bite. Or run.”

“She’s not a pet,” I reply, voice low and cold.

Yelena’s laughter is brittle. “You forget yourself, Adrian. Everyone in this room is watching. Including your family.” Her smile returns for the crowd, but her eyes never soften. “Try not to embarrass me. Or them.”

I shrug her off, just enough for her to notice, but not enough for the cameras. “Perhaps you should be more concerned with your own performance.”

Her lips thin. “You play a dangerous game with her. With all of us.”

I look back at Talia, heat rising again. “That’s what makes it interesting.”

Yelena’s eyes flash, furious and wounded. “Be careful. Some games you don’t win.”

She holds her smile, perfect for the world to see, but inside her gaze is full of venom.

Yelena’s smile does not falter for a second, but her grip tightens again, her fingernails pressing through the fabric of my jacket.

“You think I’m the problem, Adrian? You think she’ll save you from this life?”

I meet her eyes, letting my voice drop to a whisper meant for her alone. “I don’t need saving, Yelena. Least of all by you.”

She tilts her head, expression brittle and bright.

“Then why are you letting yourself get so… sloppy? Do you really think no one notices?” She glances pointedly toward the elders gathered near the head table, then back to Talia, her lips twisting.

“She’s not one of us. She never will be.

And if you let her in, she will tear you apart. ”

I keep my face still, but my patience is razor thin. “You should worry less about her and more about your own alliances.”

Yelena laughs, but it’s the wrong sound, glassy and brittle. “Oh, I always do. I protect what’s mine. Don’t forget that you’re included in that.”

I step back, loosening her hold. “I am no one’s property.”

She leans close, voice a hiss beneath the orchestra’s swell. “Then act like it. Because if you lose control, Adrian, you’ll take all of us down with you.”

Before I can reply, Miroslav appears at my side, eyes flicking from Yelena’s hand on my arm to the tension in my jaw.

“Adrian, can I have a word?” he asks quietly.

Good. I needed to speak with him anyway.

I glance at Yelena one last time, letting the cold finality settle between us. “Enjoy your evening, Yelena.”

She drops her hand, still smiling, but I can feel the promise of revenge simmering just beneath her flawless exterior.

I follow Miroslav through the crowd, the weight of her warning clinging to me like a second skin. The game is shifting, and everyone can feel it.

My eyes seek Talia’s face once more, already needing the next move.