Page 5 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

The fire is more for effect than comfort. Flames reflect against the glass, casting ripples of gold along the lacquered bookshelves and the deep green velvet of the old armchairs.

I stand with my back to the hearth, report in hand, gaze tracing the lines of text for the third time. The same story: a girl caught in a restricted records office, after hours, no proper clearance.

She was careful, methodical. Knew where to look. Didn’t trip any cameras, but missed the alarm on the frame—one of Miroslav’s additions, overlooked by everyone else. That alone tells me more than her resume ever will.

I look up as the door clicks open. Miroslav enters first, broad shoulders nearly filling the frame, a silhouette carved from old grudges and loyalty.

He steps aside to reveal her—Talia Benett, if that’s her real name. The girl from the gala, now stripped of her media badge and office camouflage. In the sterile glare of foundation lighting she looked older, colder.

Here, with the firelight casting shadows under her eyes, she looks young. Almost soft. Her coat is buttoned all the way to her neck, hands folded around her bag. She’s wary, but not panicked. She scans the room, the corners, me. Her chin lifts half an inch.

I study her in silence, letting the quiet thicken. Miroslav stands beside her until I nod, then withdraws, a living threat just behind the door. The room shrinks to the two of us, my estate humming with silence, the fire snapping softly behind my back.

She doesn’t speak first. That earns her a sliver of respect.

I keep my tone level. “Who sent you?”

She doesn’t blink. “I was told the records team needed assistance. I didn’t know it was restricted.” The words are even, measured.

She’s lying, but she’s polished the story until it glows with the friction of truth. No fidgeting. No dropped gaze. She’s done this before.

I don’t show my disappointment. Lies are common currency here, but hers is different. She sells it as if it cost her something. I wonder how many times she’s had to practice. How many masks she keeps in her drawer, waiting for nights like this.

I let the silence linger, the way I would with a subordinate who’s made a clever mistake. I cross to the desk and set the report down, fingers drumming the edge of the page.

“What’s your name again?”

“Talia Benett,” she answers, the consonants clipped and clear.

I nod, like that matters. We both know it doesn’t.

Her background check sits open on my tablet. It’s as clean as a newly minted passport. Student credentials, volunteer stints, a handful of glowing references from people who never quite answer their phones.

She’s not flagged in any agency list. Not a journalist. Not a known activist, not police, not a rival syndicate’s canary in a coal mine. Everything checks out—on paper.

Instinct is an older thing, and mine won’t let go. She was too quiet at the gala, too skilled at being overlooked. Now she’s here, standing in my house, watching me with eyes that reflect the firelight and nothing else.

I move to the window, glance at her reflection in the glass. “You know what happens to people who break into my records.”

She doesn’t move. Her breathing is steady, her posture contained. She’s good at this. Maybe not a natural, but close enough. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. If you want to fire me, I understand.”

There’s an undertone—she’s already considered worse outcomes. She’s planned for them.

I step back, fold my arms. “You aren’t stupid. If you were, you’d be at the police station, or in a shallow ditch outside the city. So, let’s try this again. What were you looking for?”

A pause. I watch her jaw work, the flicker of something—anger, maybe, or grief—before she clamps it down. “Nothing. I was curious about the old payroll files. They said there were gaps in the digital logs. I thought I could help.”

It’s a weak cover, but she holds it. She’s rehearsed every detail, layered her lies with scraps of possible truth. I recognize the technique; it’s one I’ve used myself, long before I wore bespoke suits and people called me “sir” with their heads down.

I sit. The fire hisses behind me. The room settles into an old rhythm—hunter and hunted, predator and prey, only the lines aren’t so clear. She’s not cowering, not even sweating. That makes her dangerous.

“I had your background checked,” I say, watching her for a flinch. “You’re not in any database. No enemies. No debts. Your story fits, but I don’t believe in coincidence, Miss Benett. Not when someone as quiet as you ends up in my house.”

She lifts her chin again. There’s a challenge in it, a dare, something reckless and alive. “I’m sorry if it looks suspicious. It was a mistake. If you want me gone, say so.”

She’s trying to reclaim the narrative, to control the ending. I almost admire it.

“Who are you really?” I ask, voice quieter now. “You’re not the average intern.”

She doesn’t answer. Her silence says as much as words could. I watch her, searching for the fracture in her armor or the nervous twitch, the slip of the mask. Nothing.

We sit in the hush, the fire crackling, her coat still buttoned up tight, her eyes holding mine without fear. There’s something familiar in her: the set of her mouth, the stubborn line of her shoulders. It bothers me, that familiarity. I feel it like a forgotten name on the tip of my tongue.

I stand, circle the room once, stop in front of her. Her presence is steady, an anchor in the shifting dark. I want to ask a hundred questions: Why here? Why now? Who taught you to hide in plain sight?

Instead I say, “You’ll stay here tonight. Miroslav will show you to a guest room. If you try to leave—” I leave the threat unfinished. She nods once.

I let her go, but I watch her all the way to the door. Her back is straight, steps even. She glances over her shoulder only once. For a moment, her eyes catch the firelight, and I see something raw beneath all that caution—grief, perhaps, or hunger. Or revenge.

She disappears into the hall, Miroslav following, a silent sentinel in his black suit who closes the door behind them. I sit alone with the silence, the report, and the old, cold certainty that I am missing something important.

I don’t believe in ghosts, but I believe in unfinished business. I believe, absolutely, that no one walks into my house by accident.

I watch the flames in the hearth, the shadows they cast against the high ceiling, the way they flicker and dance over the reports on my desk.

My mind keeps drifting back to her. Not the lie she spun, not the caution in her eyes, but something subtler: the steadiness with which she met my questions, the way she refused to let fear rule her posture.

I am used to watching people fall apart in this room.

Most tremble, break, beg, or bluster. They forget themselves in the presence of power—my power.

Talia Benett did not forget herself. She was careful, but not fragile.

It is a rare kind of control, and it makes her far more interesting than any spy or rival I’ve interrogated before.

I would almost call it refreshing, if I let myself admit to that kind of sentiment.

I pour myself a measure of vodka and let it burn the back of my throat. The room feels too large, the air too still. I am not in the habit of letting strangers into my home, much less keeping them here, but punishment must fit the crime, and I have no intention of making her vanish—not yet.

That would be a waste, and more importantly, it would solve nothing. The most useful information is found not by force, but by patience.

By watching what happens when the prey believes the jaws have closed, only to find the wolf waiting in the garden.

When I step into the corridor, Miroslav stands waiting outside, hands folded in front of him, eyes as hard as the marble underfoot.

“She’s not like the others,” I say quietly, as if the old walls might overhear.

“Assign her to my private team, here on the grounds. Have her moved in by the end of the week; she doesn’t leave this estate unless I allow it, and don’t allow her near the main offices in town. Frame it as a favor, if you have to.”

Miroslav’s brow lifts, just a little. He’s seen me play this game before. “You want her where you can keep an eye on her.”

“Where she knows I am watching,” I say, lips curling into something that is not quite a smile. “Let her settle in. No special treatment, but nothing too harsh. If she’s hiding something, we’ll find it.” I take a sip of vodka, let the warmth seep into my veins. “Not yet.”

He nods, efficient as ever. “It will be done.”

I watch as Talia is led down the long hallway toward the guest wing.

The firelight from the sitting room gives way to the soft, shadowy glow of sconces.

She glances back just once, catching sight of me where I stand in the doorway.

Her gaze lingers, curious and sharp, and for a moment I sense a tension.

It’s ridiculous, I know, but there’s a flicker of enjoyment in the way she resists unraveling. I have always liked puzzles, especially the kind that pretend to be ordinary. She is not what she claims.

She is not ordinary. There’s grit in her, a will that does not bend easily. It makes her beautiful in a way most women are not, especially in this world of painted smiles and careful lies.

I feel the familiar tug of attraction, the dangerous kind, the one that grows not from mere appearance, but from the shape of a mind, the cut of stubbornness.

The estate’s archive is a maze of rooms and corridors below the main floors, a world apart from the grand halls and reception rooms.

The staff is loyal, but not above curiosity. It won’t take long for rumors to start, for stories to grow. I almost want to see how she’ll handle it—how she’ll carve out her space in this closed, suspicious little ecosystem.

I return to my study, but the quiet is now restless. I pour over the data Miroslav brings me—every message she’s sent, every call she’s made. There is nothing, yet. Just enough to make me suspect I am looking for the wrong kind of evidence.

I can’t help but imagine her moving through the archives, shelves of old ledgers and files casting lines of dust across her boots.

She’ll be watched, but not too closely. She’ll feel the pressure, the eyes on her, the sense that she is both captive and honored guest. I know that feeling intimately.

It’s the feeling of being hunted and valued, both at once.

I find myself smiling again, that quiet, inward kind that never quite reaches the surface. It has been a long time since a problem has felt like a pleasure.

I pour another drink.

Tomorrow, I will summon her to the archive office and explain her new assignment. I will make it sound like a kindness, a second chance. She will know better, of course, but I suspect she will accept it with that same unflinching calm, that stubbornness that draws my attention back again and again.

As the fire burns low, I realize I am looking forward to our next conversation—not just as a test of wits, but as a kind of game.

She is a mystery, one I want to understand. To break open, perhaps, or to see how far she can bend before she snaps.