Page 31 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

One Year Later

These days, the mornings begin in quiet warmth. I rise early, sunlight spilling across the hardwood as I slip from beneath the heavy duvet.

Adrian’s arm falls away with a sleepy sigh, his fingers grazing my hip before settling on his side of the bed. I wrap myself in a robe—pale blue and soft, a gift from him—and pad barefoot through the apartment to the kitchen, where the kettle whistles, impatient and bright.

I brew my tea and curl up on the velvet couch by the tall windows.

The city outside is already moving, taxis blurring down the avenue, the buzz of ambition echoing even through double glass.

Our home is its own little world: safe, slow, and just a bit sacred. My laptop hums to life beside me, the blue-white glow of the screen opening onto a story I care about in a way I haven’t felt for years.

The headline draft is simple, clear: “In Plain Sight: The Survivors of Systemic Abuse in Institutional Care.”

It’s not about the Bratva, not about revenge or survival. I write now for something bigger, something clean; a cause I’ve long cared about but never had the freedom to pursue. My journalism serves the truth, not old anger. My voice isn’t hidden behind aliases or paranoia anymore. It’s mine.

Adrian’s voice carries from the next room, low and certain, Russian words clipped and commanding as he closes out an early call.

His business never quite sleeps, but it rarely touches me now.

He passes by on his way to the coffeepot, still barefoot, hair a little wild, and lets his hand rest on my thigh.

It lingers there—warm, grounding—a silent reminder I’m not doing this alone.

Sometimes, that’s all I need. Sometimes, that’s everything.

I catch his eye and he smiles, something soft and private passing between us. His presence is steady now, a kind of promise made in the hush before the day unspools. There are moments of intensity.

No marriage between people like us is ever simple, but the ache for war, for secrets, has faded. We learned to live with the history that made us. We learned, slowly, to trust in something new.

Outside, the city moves fast, churning with possibility and threat, but our world is slower, grounded in ritual and quiet joys. Adrian’s empire remains: reshaped, careful, less cruel. He keeps his promises. He still breaks rules, but only for me.

Eli is alive and well in the south of France, a detail that still makes my heart swell with disbelief and gratitude every time I remember.

He lives under a new name, blending into a quiet life surrounded by books, sunflowers, and students who don’t know a thing about who he once was.

He teaches creative writing at a small university, rides his old bike to the market each morning, and never locks it up.

He sends me handwritten postcards every other week, his looping script full of little stories about rainstorms, stubborn students, the scent of lavender at dusk.

He never writes about the past, only the present and the future.

Most in the Bratva believe he died in a territorial war, a myth Adrian constructed and buried so deep no one even thinks to question it. It was a quiet operation, surgical and absolute. Names erased, records rewritten, memories bought or buried.

Eli’s freedom was the greatest gift Adrian could give me, and it changed everything between us. It was proof that love, even born of violence and ruin, could be transformed.

I keep Eli’s postcards in a small box on my desk, each one a talisman against the life I thought I’d lost. Sometimes, when Adrian finds me rereading them, he sits beside me in silence, his hand covering mine, the two of us bound together by everything we almost didn’t survive.

The story I’m working on is hard. Stories about children and care homes always are.

But I have sources who trust me, editors who respect me, and a partner who believes in the work.

There’s no trace of the old adrenaline, the need to break the Bratva or expose every secret.

My life is no longer a campaign for revenge.

It’s a daily choice: to build, to heal, to fight for things that matter.

Some mornings, I catch myself staring out the window, surprised at how peaceful I feel. I never imagined this: the quiet, the safety, the slow-growing trust. There’s still a part of me that waits for the other shoe to drop, for the old darkness to seep back in. But it hasn’t. Maybe it won’t.

Adrian’s hand slides up from my thigh, brushing the edge of my robe. “How’s the story?” he asks, voice warm with sleep.

“Getting there,” I reply, smiling up at him. “It’s good work.”

He nods, brushing a kiss against my forehead before returning to his own day: calls to make, meetings to take, a world to keep in line. Always, always, he circles back to me.

After breakfast, we walk together down the street to the bakery, his arm slung over my shoulder. People look, but no one stares. We buy pastries, argue about whether to take a trip next month, share easy laughter and long glances. The city keeps rushing by, but we hold to our own rhythm.

At night, when the lights go out and the world is quiet again, Adrian pulls me close, tracing lines on my skin that spell out everything he can’t always say. I let myself want him, let myself be wanted, and together we make something new—something that belongs to us alone.

A year ago, I thought love was a battlefield, that safety was a fantasy and happiness a weakness. Now I know better. Now I know it’s a choice we keep making, morning after morning, as the city wakes and the world spins on.

In the hush before dawn, with Adrian’s hand in mine and Eli’s postcard waiting on my desk, I finally, truly believe I am free.

***

The day I’m set to publish my story, the city wakes gray and soft. The light slants through rain-streaked windows as I move through the kitchen, the warmth of the kettle settling me into the ritual of morning.

I brew my tea and settle on the velvet couch, laptop at my side, the hum of traffic muffled behind thick glass. The cursor blinks at the end of my last paragraph. I let myself reread my opening line one more time, nerves and hope fluttering in my chest.

Shadows still linger at the edge of my world.

Sometimes Yelena’s name pops up in the oddest ways. Someone claims she’s in Finland, under psychiatric observation; others say she vanished with a minor oligarch.

I’ve stopped caring. That chapter ended so quietly, I sometimes wonder if it really happened at all.

I no longer write about ghosts or vendettas.

My energy is for illumination, dragging buried truth out into the sun.

My work is for survivors, for children, for people caught in systems that want them to disappear.

Now I write with my real name at the top of the page. No aliases. No hiding. I am the woman who stands at international panels, fearless, and I wear my curves and my history without apology. The girl who once drowned herself in oversized sweaters and shame is gone.

The apartment hums with the small, sturdy rhythms of the life Adrian and I have built.

Adrian appears in the kitchen, all sleepy hair and bare feet, presses a kiss to my forehead, and murmurs, “You’ll do good.”

He never hovers, never tries to shape my story.

He just clears the path when it gets too heavy, quiets obstacles before they reach my door.

His power is immense, but for me it’s always gentle, protective.

He terrifies a room with a glance, but when he looks at me, it’s with reverence, as if he’s still a little in awe that I chose him back.

He returns to his office, the door clicking softly behind him. His world spins on—calls, meetings, a kingdom to maintain. My own work is a different sort of fight. My fingers move over the keys, focused and determined, every word a step toward justice, not vengeance. The past gave me a voice.

Adrian gave me a future.

Every sentence I write now is for someone else’s survival, someone else’s chance.

I proofread one last time, double-check every quote, and then I hit Send. The draft flies off to my editor. There’s always a moment of anxiety—a flicker of doubt, a secret hope—but it passes. I did the work. I did it right.

Outside, the rain fades and the city brightens. I open the window for fresh air. From Adrian’s office, I hear his voice in Russian, sharp and sure, but never harsh with me. I let the silence settle. I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop anymore. I survived. We survived.

Adrian returns with coffee, sets it at my elbow.

“Did you publish?” he asks.

“I did,” I tell him, smiling. My nerves flutter, but I feel proud. “It’s out.”

He sits beside me, his arm heavy and comforting across my shoulders. There’s no need for more words. He just pulls me close. I lean into him, letting myself feel the weight of the moment. The future I never thought I’d have is here.

My inbox dings with a note from my editor: It’s brilliant. You’re leading the conversation, Talia. I’m proud of you.

Tears sting my eyes, but I let myself smile as Adrian’s hand finds mine. In the hush between his calls and my keystrokes, happiness blooms.

I close my laptop and sit back on the velvet couch, letting my body relax into the quiet, rain-washed afternoon. I glance at Adrian and smile.

He sees me watching him and smiles, slow and genuine, the kind that still makes my stomach flutter even after all this time.

“You did it,” he says softly, coming to stand beside the couch.

“I did,” I answer, barely above a whisper.

He crouches in front of me, his large hands warm on my knees, eyes searching mine. “I read the advance copy. I couldn’t be prouder, Talia.” He brushes a curl from my cheek, his thumb lingering on my jaw. “You’re incredible.”

My heart beats faster: part nerves, part pride, part the familiar, simmering heat that never truly leaves us.