Page 4 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

I step into my apartment just before midnight, the city outside oddly muffled by the old double-glazed windows.

My feet ache, my back is stiff, but my mind feels painfully clear.

Too alert for sleep, every sense still tuned to the echo of marble floors and expensive laughter.

I close the door and flick the lock, then double-check it, habit more than paranoia.

I drop my camera bag on the kitchen table and pull the curtains tight. The apartment feels even emptier tonight, the faint scent of sweat and dust sharp in the air. I sit, peeling off my shoes, and reach for my camera.

The memory card is full, but I already know it contains nothing I shouldn’t have.

I made sure never to point the lens at Adrian Sharov, not even for a candid shot. He passed in and out of frame only at the periphery, a shadow in expensive black, a shape reflected in someone else’s glass. Even my nerves weren’t reckless enough to risk more.

Still, I can’t shake the way he looked at me. It was a glance, only a second, but it landed with surgical precision. He didn’t see my face. He saw straight through me, peeling back every layer of the Talia Benett mask.

I feel it again now, that chill at the base of my neck, the certainty that I’d been seen not just as a body in the room, but as a question worth asking.

I lock the camera in my desk drawer, thumb spinning the key twice before stashing it deep in my jeans pocket. Then I pull out my notebook, which is battered, spiral-bound, its pages already soft at the corners. I start to scrawl, writing fast, not caring about neatness.

Security pattern: Guards rotated every fifteen minutes, moved in pairs near the north entrance, singles by the kitchen and restrooms. Main floor always had a line of sight to the exits.

No one approached him first. Not donors, not press, not even staff. He chose who he spoke to—usually with a nod, a glance, sometimes just a tilt of his glass.

Women flirted, all polished nails and low laughs, but he never broke cool. Polite, a little bored, never let anyone close enough for more than a word or two. Rumor among the staff says he has a fiancée, someone “untouchable,” though no one’s ever seen her in public.

I circle the last line twice. I stare at the words until the ink nearly blurs. Then I add: he watches everything. Misses nothing.

Outside, a car rumbles past, headlights flashing across the ceiling. I close the notebook, tuck it under my pillow, and lie back in the dark. I’m wide awake, already replaying the night, already wondering if the lion noticed the mouse and what he might do next.

I sleep only in patches, haunted by ballroom lights and the echo of Adrian Sharov’s gaze.

***

When my work phone buzzes with a calendar invite from Eric— URGENT: Media Debrief, 8:30am —I barely have time for coffee before pulling on clean jeans and a sweater, stuffing my notebook into my bag.

The foundation’s media room is all glass and blue light.

The smell of stale coffee and printer toner hangs thick as I settle at a workstation.

My assignment is simple, at least on paper: sort the raw footage, trim crowd shots, and draft captions for the event’s social posts.

The foundation wants the gala to look seamless and elegant, powerful, charitable.

My job is to shape the narrative, erase the blemishes.

There are hours of footage, most of it boring.

Droning speeches, the swirl of dresses, donors beaming at cameras.

I scrub through it, frame by frame, noting the practiced choreography of the room—security always in motion, guests herded gently away from VIP corners. I almost miss the moment that matters.

It’s a shot near the ballroom exit, timestamped just past midnight.

A woman in a dark red dress stands with her back to the camera, posture tense, chin lifted in stubborn defiance.

Adrian stands before her, imposing in a tailored black suit, face as unreadable as ever.

The clip is almost silent, but I can see the shape of their argument in the taut lines of their bodies.

The woman’s words are sharp, her hand slicing the air once, then again, frustration etched into the tightness of her jaw.

Adrian doesn’t flinch. He listens, arms loose at his sides, gaze fixed on her with that same icy patience I saw last night. If he says anything at all, it’s quiet—a warning, maybe, or a dismissal.

She shakes her head, shoulders rigid. Her mask slips for just a heartbeat—a flash of pain, or fury, or both.

I rewind, watching it again. And again. The distance between them isn’t physical, but it’s absolute.

Whatever binds them isn’t affection. Coldness radiates from his stance, the kind you can only build with years of practice.

She’s beautiful, with dark hair swept up, lips painted to match her dress, but it’s clear she’s alone in that argument.

I jot a note in the margin of my worksheet: red dress—fiancée? Not happy. No warmth, only ice.

I force myself to keep working, cataloging the rest of the footage, but that image lingers. For all the rumors, the reality looks nothing like power couple perfection. Adrian Sharov commands a room with silence, but it’s the silences in his private world that seem sharpest.

My hands tremble a little as I save the clip, careful to label it only by time and location, nothing more. I know what secrets can cost.

Night air settles heavy over the city, smothering the streets in a layer of wet fog. I keep my head down as I make my way toward the Sharov archive facility—a nondescript warehouse slotted between an auto garage and a shuttered bakery downtown.

Inside, the warehouse is vast and echoing, all corrugated walls and humming fluorescent lights. Rows of steel shelves stretch deep into the gloom, stacked with banker boxes, computer towers, locked filing cabinets.

I check in at the security desk, signing my name in looping, practiced letters, and let the guard photocopy my ID badge. “Third row, left side, through the door marked Records,” he tells me, barely glancing up. “Don’t wander. There are cameras everywhere.”

He isn’t wrong. I catch their lenses glinting above every aisle, the little red lights blinking in time with my pulse.

I walk briskly, careful to move with purpose, pausing at the right shelves, tapping labels into the inventory app on my phone.

I am just another cog in the machine, here to preserve the foundation’s precious paper trail.

A few other staffers are scattered down the row, heads bent over laptops and scanners. No one looks twice at the “student help.”

I work methodically for the first hour, uploading spreadsheet after spreadsheet, archiving invoices and guest lists.

When I’m sure no one’s watching, I slip a hand into my pocket and pull out a copy of the internal directory I printed before coming. One door stands out: Suite 4B, Administration Office. I passed it on the way in, tucked just behind the supervisor’s lounge, labeled only with a black “4B.”

When the last of the other interns clock out, I gather my bag and move quietly down the hall. The office is locked, as I expected. I hesitate only a moment before reaching up to the ceiling tile above the door. The key slides out, greasy from years of lazy hands, and I let myself in.

Inside, the air is cooler. File boxes are stacked in uneven rows across battered desks, some marked with neat codes, others with nothing but a line of numbers.

I don’t bother reading the labels at first—I just start snapping photos, using my phone’s silent mode. Names I don’t recognize, aliases in Russian and English, accounts at banks I’ve never heard of.

There are ledgers and what looks like offshore wire instructions, handwritten notes with only dates and numbers. Everything feels both urgent and unspeakably dangerous.

A battered box in the corner draws my eye—this one labeled with the kind of scrawled shorthand Eli used to joke about: H.C. – A/M – 19/7.

I take a deep breath, snap three quick pictures, then flip the box open. Inside are passports. At least six, all with different names, different faces, but two sets of eyes that are the same cold gray-blue.

My stomach drops. I keep photographing, because there’s no time to look too closely, not if I want to get out.

Footsteps echo outside. I freeze, tucking the passports back in and sliding the box into place. I take one last photo of the file room itself, then pocket my phone and check the knob.

Heart hammering, I step back into the hallway, closing the door behind me.

A soft alarm chimes overhead. I hadn’t touched anything that should have set it off—no drawers, no safes, no wires.

Panic claws at my chest. I make myself walk, not run, heading for the exit with my shoulders back and my head high.

I fumble for my bag, double-check that my camera is zipped inside, and slip the memory card into the lining of my coat.

The corridors feel longer now, the buzzing lights more hostile. Every door and shadow seems to stretch, hungry for secrets. I try to remember my story: Inventory. Backups. Sent by Eric. Nothing to hide.

I’m almost to the front desk when a man rounds the corner, his black coat swirling around his knees. He’s tall and broad, face unreadable, a wire peeking from his ear. He blocks my path with a single, gloved hand.

“You need to come with me,” he says, voice flat and final.

For a moment, I consider running. Except, I can’t outrun a Bratva escort, not here, not now. I nod once, not trusting my voice, and let him steer me toward the side exit.

We pass through a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only,” and I risk one last glance at the security monitors. My face is everywhere, caught in black and white on every screen.

He opens the back door, and the city is gone. In its place, a sleek black car idling at the curb, windows tinted, doors already open. I slide inside, holding my bag tight to my chest. He gets in beside me, and the car pulls away with a hiss of tires.

The drive is silent, thick with unspoken threats. I keep my hands steady, forcing my breath to slow. Every time the man’s gaze flicks to my lap, I fight the urge to hide my camera better, but it’s already buried beneath a pile of crumpled receipts and tangled earbuds.

The memory card is pressed against my thigh, hidden inside the coat’s inner seam. Eli would be proud of that much, at least.

Streetlights blur past, giving way to larger roads, then to the winding lanes on the edge of the city. Fog presses in, swallowing the landscape. I try to track our path, count turns, but after ten minutes I’m hopelessly lost.

No one speaks. The only sound is the low hum of the engine, the occasional click of the man’s phone as he reads incoming messages.

He never looks at me, not directly. I sit with my hands folded in my lap, rehearsing my story again and again, willing my heart to slow.

The car turns off the main road, up a long, tree-lined drive. Iron gates loom from the mist, swinging open at our approach.

The Sharov estate rises out of the darkness, all stone and glass and cold illumination. For a heartbeat, I wonder if this is where Eli ended up, if these were the walls he saw last.

The car glides to a halt beneath the awning. The man in the black coat opens my door. My legs barely hold me upright as I step out into the wet night air.

I tell myself to breathe. I tell myself I’ve prepared for this, rehearsed every possibility. But as I look up at the estate—its windows all dark but one, high in the west wing—I can’t breathe at all.