Page 6 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

I meet Jessa on a Wednesday, in a coffee shop crowded with art students and people pretending to write screenplays. The windows fog from the steam of the espresso machine.

I press my hands around a chipped mug and listen to her talk about her new apartment in Brooklyn, her job at a start-up that burns through interns like paper, and her latest crush—a DJ with bad tattoos and worse opinions.

For a while, it’s almost easy to slip back into being the girl I was before New York was a mission, before everything I did was shadowed by fear.

Jessa doesn’t ask why I called, just grins when she sees me. She hugs me tight, the way she always has, squeezing until something in my chest loosens.

“You look tired,” she says, flopping into her chair. “Like, impressively tired. Have you eaten anything that didn’t come from a vending machine this week?”

“I had a salad yesterday,” I say, trying to sound light.

“Lettuce doesn’t count. You need a burger.”

I laugh, grateful for the normalcy. For a few minutes, we talk about classes, bad landlords, and the merits of sleeping through entire weekends. I tell her I’m still working at the news foundation, leaving out the specifics. I make no mention of Sharov or the estate.

I can’t tell Jessa much, but I need the anchor of her presence.

She’s been my best friend since high school, the one person who never flinched when Eli vanished, who let me sit in her room for hours, silent and shaking, offering tea and gentle jokes.

She never pushed. I think she knows, even now, that there are things I won’t say.

Still, I need to talk about something. Anything. My nerves are wound so tight I can barely swallow.

“So,” I say, swirling the dregs of my coffee. “There’s this guy at work. Well, a higher-up. Technically my boss’s boss’s boss, I guess.”

Jessa grins. “Oooh, is he hot?”

I snort. “That’s not the point. And yes, objectively, I suppose he is. But he’s—God, he’s impossible. The kind of person who just… controls every room he’s in. He barely talks, but when he does, it’s like everyone snaps to attention. I can’t figure out if he’s a genius or a dictator.”

“Maybe both? That’s very Russian villain of him.” She grins, not knowing how close she’s landed to the truth. “What’s he like?”

I hesitate, not sure how much to share. I choose my words carefully.

“He’s sharp. Cold. The kind of guy you’d cross the street to avoid if you saw him coming.

He’s supposed to be running the charity branch, but everyone knows he’s got his fingers in everything.

He’s always watching, always ten steps ahead.

You know how some people just… make you feel like they see more than you’re saying? ”

Jessa leans in, eyebrows raised. “Are you saying he’s psychic, or just a control freak?”

“Both, maybe.” I rub my temple. “He makes everyone nervous. Even the other execs. There’s just something about him. He doesn’t even have to say anything, people just give him space.”

She grins wider. “Is this a rant, or are you secretly into him? Because it kind of sounds like you’re into him.”

I choke on my coffee. “Oh my God, Jessa, no. He’s terrifying. Like, genuinely intimidating. I can’t get away from him.”

She makes a sympathetic noise. “Yikes. So what, does he glare at you all day? Or are you getting the silent treatment?”

“It’s worse,” I say, voice dropping. “He just… watches. I’m pretty sure he looks at me through the cameras. He never misses anything. It’s like playing chess with someone who already knows how the game ends.”

Jessa sips her chai, pretending to consider. “He sounds like the kind of guy who could make a therapist rich.”

“He’d eat a therapist alive.” I try to laugh, but it comes out strained. “He’s not just scary, though. He’s—” I cut myself off before I say too much. “Never mind. I just… I can’t tell if he wants to fire me or kill me, or see what I’ll do next.”

Jessa grins, teeth flashing. “I’m still stuck on the objectively hot part. Is he, like, older? Rugged CEO vibes? Or more mysterious bad boy?”

I groan. “He’s in his late thirties, maybe? I don’t know. He’s all sharp angles and quiet power. Not the kind of guy you’d flirt with unless you had a death wish. He has a fiancée, anyway, or so everyone says. I’ve never seen her, but the rumor is she’s untouchable.”

Jessa makes a face. “Of course. Well, if he gives you too much trouble, you know where to find me. Or where to send the police.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

We fall into silence for a moment, watching the barista scowl at a jammed blender as a couple in the corner argues quietly.

I feel a weight lift, just a little, for having said something out loud—even if it was only a fraction of the truth.

There is a comfort in ranting about Adrian as if he’s just another nightmare boss, not the man whose shadow I live in now.

“Seriously, though,” Jessa says, nudging my foot under the table. “If you need a place to crash, or a getaway plan, I’ve got you. Bad bosses can make you crazy.”

I nod, grateful. “I know. Thanks, Jess.”

We talk for another hour. Mostly about small things, safe things.

When we part, she hugs me again, whispering, “Take care of yourself, Tali. You’re tougher than you think.”

As I walk home, I replay the conversation, letting Jessa’s warmth fill the spaces inside me that Adrian’s presence always chills.

I tell myself it’s enough for now. I tell myself I can do this as long as I remember who I am and who I have on my side, even if they don’t know the whole story.

***

The invitation arrives that evening, just as the sky darkens to the grayish violet of a city winter. I’m standing in the kitchen, drying a mug, when my phone vibrates on the counter.

The message glows formal and impersonal—digital calligraphy at odds with its real intent.

Ms. Benett,

You are invited to attend a private business dinner at the Mironov Estate this Friday evening. The purpose is select media coverage of ongoing philanthropic ventures. Transportation will be arranged.

Attendance confirmed by reply.

I stare at the words, feeling the weight behind them.

“Media coverage.” As if the truth has ever been so tidy.

My mind flashes to Adrian’s eyes on me—calculating, curious, that quick sweep from head to toe that made me feel at once exposed and measured.

The faint grin he’d worn, more suggestion than smile, as if he knew exactly how this invitation would land.

For a moment, I consider refusing. I tell myself it would be smart to keep my distance, to wait for another angle, but that’s a lie.

This is my best chance to get closer, to see the inner circle, to chase the threads Eli never got to pull.

My thumbs move before my brain can second-guess.

Confirmed. Thank you for the invitation.

The next twenty-four hours are a blur—scraping together something formal enough to pass, rehearsing neutral smiles in the mirror. I tuck my notebook into my purse, a pencil case full of coded shorthand and backup pens.

My phone is wiped of anything personal, preloaded with a spreadsheet labeled “Content Calendar” that’s really a maze of reminders and questions for myself.

The car arrives just as snow begins to fall—fat, lazy flakes drifting down like the city itself is slowing to a hush.

The driver is stone-faced, doesn’t speak except to confirm my name.

We pass through Manhattan’s washed-out glare and into the country, where the roads are swallowed by trees and fog.

My reflection floats in the window, pale and taut, eyes darker than I remember. Snow piles along the shoulders, muting the world to a hush so complete it feels preordained.

The Mironov Estate rises from the woods, a silhouette of old money and fresh security. Fences cut with iron points. Walls too high for decoration.

The main drive is swept clean, flanked by armed men in thick coats—more muscle than the gala, fewer guests to distract from the fact. The car rolls to a stop beneath the covered portico.

Someone opens my door, hand gloved, voice clipped: “Welcome, Ms. Benett.”

Inside, the difference is immediate. No cameras, no press badges, no nervous foundation staff. The guests are fewer, older, their suits and jewelry understated, their faces familiar from years of research—politicians who never use their real names, oligarchs who own factories and silence.

A staffer leads me through a series of halls, past heavy doors and art that looks too ancient to touch. The dining room glows with golden sconces, opulent but cold. I’m seated closer to Adrian than I expect, just two seats down from his right. I have a perfect view of the head of the table.

The rest of the seating feels intentional—strangers arranged for power, not comfort. Most of the guests are men. Conversation is soft and precise, slipping between languages, none of them careless.

I set my phone on the table, half hidden behind my water glass, and tap notes under the guise of “social coverage.” In reality, I’m recording the code of the room: who leans in, who looks away, what kind of questions hang unsaid.

No one uses real names. Even introductions are blurred.

“Mikhail from the Foundation.”

“Our friend from Saint Petersburg.”

“The Senator.”

They talk of shipments, of votes, of favors owed and debts remembered. The air hums with a practiced unease.

A door opens behind us. The air shifts. A woman enters. She’s tall and regal, with hair like burnished copper swept into a knot. She’s dressed in black velvet, understated but striking, diamonds at her throat and ears.

The fiancée, I realize. The woman rumored to be “untouchable.” She is beautiful, but her beauty is the kind that demands distance. I study her discreetly. She meets my eyes just once, the briefest flicker of interest—then she turns away, dismissing me as no threat.

That’s when I realize that Adrian isn’t here.