Page 25 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

The house is restless tonight, the air humming with the kind of tension that makes every shadow look like a threat. The storm has blown itself out, but something electric still hangs between the stone walls, sharp and cold.

I’m in my office, eyes half closed, the dregs of vodka untouched at my elbow, when my security lieutenant slips inside. He doesn’t knock—he knows better than to waste time.

“There’s been an alert,” he says, his voice pitched low. “Just past midnight. Unauthorized access. Lower archives.”

My mind sharpens in an instant. “Who?”

He swallows, hesitation flickering. “It’s… your wife. We caught her on camera. She picked the lock on the storage room. She… she went through the classified files, sir. The old ones. Even your top men don’t touch those.”

The words hang between us, heavy as iron. I say nothing for a long minute, watching my reflection in the window, the city stretched silent below. Betrayal. I’d prepared myself for this, hadn’t I? I’d known something didn’t fit. Hearing it—the confirmation—still feels like a blade.

Finally, I mutter, “Leave.” My voice is colder than the glass. The man vanishes.

I turn to my desk and pull up the security footage, hands steady, jaw clenched. I watch it frame by frame, searching for answers.

Talia moves through the old storage room like a ghost, her hair loose, face set in lines I’ve never seen.

She bends over the cabinet, picks the lock with practiced hands.

She doesn’t hesitate. Not once. She rifles through the files, turning pages, scanning names and codes even my most trusted men know better than to touch.

I freeze the tape as she lingers over one page, her fingers white-knuckled, her lips moving.

I zoom in, trying to see what she reads, but it’s obscured: charred, blurred, the camera too far to catch the words.

But her face tells me enough: shock, grief, the hard flicker of something like hope.

And then she bolts, careful as a professional, gone before anyone can catch her.

I watch the footage again and again, my anger mounting with every second. My mind runs through every conversation, every touch, every look we’ve shared. Was it all a lie? Every night in my bed, every word from her mouth?

My phone buzzes. The lieutenant, again. This time his voice is even lower, tight with nerves. “Sir, you said to dig. I… I found something. It’s not good.”

I grit my teeth. “Show me.”

He sends the file. I open it and the blood drains from my face.

Talia Benett: no history, no family, no trace before last year.

Talia Rivers… that record is harder to bury.

Sister of Elijah Rivers. Former investigative journalist, disappeared after digging too deep into Bratva-linked money laundering.

The man who nearly brought down half our network, who was silenced—removed, hidden, locked away on my order.

The truth clicks into place, sharp and final. The woman in my bed, the one I just married, is the sister of the man I helped destroy.

She’s been in my house, in my bed, whispering secrets, learning routines, plotting. Waiting for her chance.

A cold fury settles in my chest, deeper than anything I’ve felt in years. I let her in. I let her close. I almost let myself believe it was real.

I lean back, watching the city lights flicker through the rain. Every memory I have of her feels poisoned now: her laughter, her touch, the defiant spark in her eyes. I wanted the truth from her. I wanted everything she had to give.

All along, she was here for one reason. Revenge. Justice. Maybe both.

The betrayal is almost elegant. If it weren’t aimed at me, I could admire it.

I open the footage again, freezing on the moment she clutches that scorched folder to her chest. I know what she found. I know what she’s about to do.

For a moment, I want to storm upstairs, drag her out of bed, demand answers with my hands, with my anger, with every weapon I know how to wield. But I force myself to wait. I need to be sure. I need to know what she’ll do next. Whether she’ll run, or fight, or finally tell me the truth herself.

I pour another glass, though my hands are shaking now, and sit in the dark, letting the weight of her betrayal crush every soft, foolish part of me that ever thought she could be mine.

She was never mine. Not really. She was always Elijah Rivers’s sister. She was always the threat I should have seen coming.

The burn of vodka hits the back of my throat as I down the last of it, harsh enough to sting, but not enough to numb the storm inside my chest.

I slam the empty glass down and stare at the city lights flickering through rain-streaked windows. There is no comfort here. No safety. Only the bitter clarity that comes from being outplayed in your own house.

I don’t wait for morning. I need to see her. I need to know what she’ll say—if she’ll even bother to lie to my face again. I move through the mansion with the silent certainty of a man who owns every stone, every shadow, every secret.

Tonight, the house feels foreign. The air is charged, thick with everything that’s been left unsaid.

I find her outside my quarters, pacing in the dark, her silhouette outlined by the slant of hallway light. Her hair is wild, her face pale, shoulders squared with rage and purpose. For a moment I just watch her. This woman I thought I could claim, this enemy I let into my bed.

She stops when she sees me, trembling with fury, her hands balled into fists at her sides. The air between us splits wide open, raw and electric.

“Where is he?” she demands, voice cracking. “Where is Eli?” She steps closer, every inch of her trembling with grief and rage. Her eyes are blazing, searching mine for something I know she won’t find.

I say nothing. I watch her, letting the silence stretch. I want her to see it: the truth, the regret, the line I never meant to cross.

She shoves me, hard enough to make me take a step back. “You knew, Adrian. You fucking knew!” Her voice breaks, tears shining in her eyes, anger and betrayal warring across her face.

I grab her wrist—not harshly, but firm enough to keep her from running, from turning her back on me completely. I feel her pulse racing under my fingers, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” she chokes, voice thick with pain. “You let me think he was dead. You let me crawl to you, beg for scraps of truth, and all this time—”

My grip loosens, and she yanks her hand away, glaring at me with a hatred so pure it almost steals my breath. I want to tell her everything. I want to lie. I want to drag her into my arms and make her forget every lie, every secret, every scar I have ever given her.

I do nothing. I let her hurt, let her hate me, let her feel every ounce of the betrayal that stands between us now. I do not speak. There are no words left. She deserves the truth, but I have protected that truth so long it’s fused with every part of me.

She turns away. I don’t stop her. I don’t chase her as she disappears down the hall, her footsteps echoing off the stone, carrying her farther from me than she’s ever been. My hands are still clenched, jaw tight, fury and longing burning through me in equal measure.

She is my wife, my greatest vulnerability, my sharpest threat. She just became my enemy. And still, still, I want her more than I can bear.

I lean back against the wall, letting the weight of her anger settle over me. I think of the life she’s built around grief, the fire in her voice, the way she looks at me like she wants to tear me apart and never let me go.

She is the only person in this world who could truly destroy me. I never should have let her in. I never should have wanted her, needed her, loved her.

But I did.

I will not chase her. Not tonight. I will give her space to rage, to mourn, to decide how much more of herself she’s willing to risk for answers I cannot give. I trust her to come back to me, or to end this the way it was always meant to end: bloody, brutal, honest.

Alone in the silence, I replay every moment—her hands on me, her laughter, the first time she looked at me with something that wasn’t fear or calculation. I want to believe there is still a way forward. I want to believe that what we have is enough.

The truth is, I don’t know. I have made her my enemy, and I cannot blame her for fighting back.

I push away from the wall and disappear into the dark, letting the house close in around me. There is no sleep tonight. Only the certainty that the game is far from over, and that I have never wanted anyone the way I want the woman who now has every reason to destroy me.

I wait for her in the bedroom, pacing slow circles in the dark, listening for the sound of her footsteps in the hallway.

The silence is heavy, punctuated only by the ticking of the old clock on the mantel and the distant moan of wind against the glass.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty space where she should be, where she always is, tangled in the sheets, close enough to touch.

Hours drag past. I don’t sleep. I replay her words, her accusation, the way she pulled free of my grip and left me standing in the hall with nothing but regret and anger clenching my fists. Each time the floor creaks, I hope it’s her coming back, but it never is.

By three in the morning, the weight of her absence is suffocating. I can’t stand it any longer. In a moment that feels foreign—vulnerable, weak—I reach for the phone and call Miroslav. He answers after the first ring, his voice rough with exhaustion and surprise.

“Sir?”

I hesitate, then speak, my tone low, stripped bare of command. “She hasn’t come back. She’s never stayed away this long. What would you do?”

There’s a pause on the line. I imagine him sitting up, blinking away sleep, realizing how unusual this is. Adrian Sharov doesn’t ask for advice. Adrian Sharov doesn’t confess worry, doesn’t admit to needing anyone, least of all his wife.

Miroslav answers quietly, “Give her time. Let her come to you. She’s angry, but she’s not gone.”

His words settle into the darkness.

I rub a hand over my face, feeling every year of this life in my bones. Miroslav’s words echo in my ear. Let her come to you. I want to believe it. I want to believe I haven’t lost her for good.

“Don’t go after her tonight. She needs to decide what to do with the truth. If you try to force it now—”

“I know,” I cut in, my voice harsh, brittle. “What if she doesn’t come back?”

“She will,” he replies. “You made her your enemy, but you also made her your equal. She won’t walk away without a fight. Give her that respect, at least.”

I exhale slowly, staring at the door, willing it to open. “You think I made a mistake.”

Miroslav is silent for a long moment. “I think you chose her, knowing what it would cost. You can’t undo that, Adrian. Just… don’t try to control everything now. Let her come back because she wants to, not because you order it.”

I close my eyes, the words cutting deeper than I expect. “If she walks away, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Then don’t let her,” he says, gentler now. “But don’t make it worse. Not tonight.”

The line goes quiet. I sit in the dark, listening to the silence, and wonder if I’m capable of letting her choose me at all.