Page 2 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

I braid my hair back tight, dress in my cleanest sweater and dark jeans, and double-check the contents of my bag: notebook, pen, phone, foundation acceptance letter with the fake ID number highlighted in yellow.

I look myself over in the cracked bathroom mirror.

The face that stares back at me is tired, drawn, but steady.

Talia Benett, I remind myself. Not Talia Rivers. Not Eli’s sister. Not a girl with anything to hide.

The subway is a blur—shoulder-to-shoulder with other commuters, the car rattling through tunnels, everyone absorbed in their own exhaustion. Nobody looks at me twice. I ride two stops too far, just to be sure, then circle back. Old habit.

By the time I reach the Sharov Foundation building, my heart is racing and I force myself to breathe slow, measured.

The building looms above the sidewalk, sleek and unwelcoming, all gray glass and matte steel, its corners too sharp and windows too narrow for comfort.

Cameras are perched at every angle, their dark lenses following the flow of people in and out.

There’s a logo above the revolving door, stylized silver, modern, soulless.

I can feel the security guards’ eyes skimming over everyone as they enter, cataloging faces, checking badges.

Inside, the lobby is bright and cold. Light bounces off pale marble floors and tall glass walls. A woman at the front desk checks my ID, her face expressionless as she matches my photo to the fake name.

For a heartbeat, I think she’s going to question me, but then she gives a short nod and prints out a sticky visitor’s badge: Talia Benett, Intern.

Orientation is on the sixth floor. I ride up with a cluster of other new arrivals, most of them younger, talking quietly or scrolling their phones.

A man with tired eyes and a blue lanyard leads us through a set of double doors into a conference room where stale coffee sits on a side table beside neatly stacked folders.

He introduces himself as Eric, the operations coordinator. There are name tags at every seat—mine in the front row.

I take it, slide in quietly, and keep my gaze fixed forward as Eric welcomes us with the same practiced script I imagine he gives every month.

Company values. Security protocols. A video about the foundation’s “commitment to journalistic integrity.” I sit through it all, jotting notes in the margins of my pad, eyes moving more often to the exit than the screen.

After an hour, a round of introductions. There’s a handful of full-time hires, but most are interns or recent grads like me. One girl from Queens, another guy who transferred from Rutgers, a smiling redhead from Vermont.

I make my voice steady when my turn comes. “Talia Benett, New Jersey. Journalism student.” No mention of my real school, no slipups. The words feel strange on my tongue, but no one seems to notice.

Eric outlines our assignments for the week. The newsroom is abuzz with preparations for a high-profile charity gala.

“This is a big deal for the foundation,” he says, flipping through his clipboard. “Bratva-sponsored, with some of the biggest names in philanthropy and finance attending. The Sharov family is… well, they’re the centerpiece this year. Adrian Sharov himself will be hosting.”

The name rings out like a gunshot. For a split second, my whole body goes still.

My hands curl into fists under the table, nails biting into my palm.

Adrian Sharov. The architect of this empire, the man my brother warned me about in every encrypted message and half-joking threat.

I try to keep my face blank, but I can feel the flush rising at the back of my neck.

Eric continues, oblivious. “The media team will handle coverage: photos, interviews, livestreaming the main speeches. We need every hand on deck. Talia, you’ll be with us, prepping the press kits and assisting with digital archiving during the event.”

He gives me a quick smile, as if he’s doing me a favor. I nod, voice small when I say, “Thank you.” All I can think is how quickly things have become real.

The rest of orientation passes in a blur. There are tours of empty offices, introductions to harried supervisors who barely glance up from their screens, an IT guy who gives a rushed explanation of secure passwords.

I watch every detail—the way people lower their voices when certain names are mentioned, the security keypad on every door, the subtle distance between foundation employees and the people wearing Sharov-branded pins.

Nobody talks about Eli, but I catch the way one of the older men frowns when he hears my last name. Benett, not Rivers. Still, I make a mental note.

***

By early evening, I’m back on the subway, pressed between a man in a suit and a woman reading a romance novel. My hands ache from clenching and unclenching my notebook all day. I keep my head down and replay every detail, every face, every snatch of overheard conversation.

The gala is in three days. Adrian Sharov will be in the building. My stomach flips at the thought—half dread, half anticipation.

At home, the apartment feels even emptier than before.

The light is nearly gone, the radiator ticking softly, and I sit cross-legged on the futon, the folder of Eli’s notes open in my lap.

I take out a blank sheet, start sketching lines, making a plan the way he taught me— “Get the lay of the land first, Tali. See who talks to who. Watch who keeps their distance.”

I make a chart of names, roles, where they sit in the hierarchy. Eric. The IT guy. Two women from HR who whispered through lunch. I draw circles around the Sharov family, arrows linking the foundation to their shadowy empire, question marks over every gap in my knowledge.

I write out my goals: observe, document, keep your head down. Don’t get noticed. Don’t get caught. If I’m lucky, I’ll blend in as another intern, just close enough to watch but never a threat.

I take out my phone and open Eli’s last message. The one I’ve read so many times the words are burned behind my eyes: I’m onto something. If I go quiet, assume the worst.

My thumb hovers over the reply window, though I know he’ll never answer. The silence that follows is a kind of answer itself—a warning and a dare.

I close my laptop and slide it under the futon.

Every part of me aches for something as simple as a safe ending, a miracle headline— Missing Reporter Found Alive.

But the more honest part of me knows better.

Eli is gone. Maybe dead. I can’t afford the luxury of grief, not yet.

The pain is there, but it’s changed. No longer raw, but dense and cold, a stone I carry everywhere.

I look around the apartment, at the boxes still half unpacked, at Eli’s photos spread out like a map. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to the foundation, wear my new face, do what needs to be done.

If Adrian Sharov is responsible for what happened to my brother, I will find out. And if it’s true—if he took Eli from me—I will bury him.

***

One week later, my official assignment arrives in a curt, typo-riddled email from Eric:

Press coverage team. Gala night. Credentials will be distributed at call time.

Dress code: business formal.

I read it twice, then a third time, just to be sure I haven’t misinterpreted the words. I haven’t. It’s real.

The gala is being held at the old Mironov Estate, a place I know by reputation more than memory—high marble steps, gold-leaf ceilings, the kind of grandeur meant to impress and intimidate.

It’s one of the oldest Bratva-owned properties in the city, the type of place you’d expect to see in a glossy magazine spread.

I picture myself there, badge on my blazer, camera in hand, trying not to look out of place.

My role is clear enough: shadow the senior photographers, snap candid crowd shots, help with the livestream and social media blurbs.

Eric’s note is full of reminders: be discreet, stay out of the way, never approach VIPs without clearance.

It’s meant to be routine, just another night for the foundation’s junior team.

To me, it feels like a test. A trap, maybe. I wonder if Eli ever felt this kind of sick anticipation, if he ever sat at a kitchen table with a pit in his stomach, steeling himself for what came next.

The guest list is attached as a PDF. I scroll past the names of billionaires and minor celebrities, past old money philanthropists and new tech barons. Then, at the very top, in crisp block letters:

ADRIAN SHAROV.

The words feel heavier than anything else on the screen. They take up all the air in the room. I trace the line with my fingertip, as if the ink might burn me, as if saying the name aloud could summon him.

I close my eyes, taking one slow, deep breath. My palms are sweating. I smooth them down the front of my navy sweater, anchoring myself in the rough knit.

My reflection in the black screen of my laptop looks paler than usual, lips pressed thin, eyes too wide. I don’t feel like anyone special. Just an intern with a borrowed name, borrowed nerves.

Still, I can almost hear Eli’s voice in my head, teasing but warm: “You’re braver than you think, Tali.”

I whisper into the hush of my empty apartment, a steadying mantra, “I can do this.” The words feel shaky at first, but then firmer, filling the space around me. “I can do this.”