Page 7 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

Snow clings to the estate gates, turning their ironwork soft and spectral as I pass through. I arrive late—deliberately, not that anyone here would call me on it. In my world, lateness is its own flex, a reminder that my time is worth more than theirs.

As I cross the stone threshold and hear the hum of conversation, I already regret saying yes to this dinner.

These gatherings are always the same: a performance of old loyalties and new betrayals, handshakes hiding threats, toasts concealing power plays.

I sweep through the foyer, my coat taken by a staffer who barely meets my eye.

The dining room is opulence without warmth—cut crystal, gold-rimmed plates, a chandelier casting cold stars across black marble floors.

The guests are arranged by status and suspicion.

Conversation drops by half when I enter, replaced by a brittle expectancy.

Markian rises from his seat, lips curled into an easy grin.

“Adrian. About time you graced us.” He claps me on the back with genuine affection, the only one here who would dare.

My cousin, by blood and temperament, is nothing like the rest—too brash, too quick to laugh, but sharp as a blade when it matters.

If I have family in this world, it’s him.

I clasp his shoulder. “Did I miss anything interesting?”

He shrugs, lowering his voice. “The usual posturing. Yelena terrorizing the staff. Petr’s trying to corner you into a joint venture again.” His eyes flick past me, always alert. “You want vodka or wine?”

“Vodka,” I say, almost smiling.

I take my place at the head of the table, nodding at the host and murmuring a few words in Russian for tradition’s sake. My mind is already elsewhere, cataloging faces, calculating motives, weighing the air for anything out of balance.

Then I see her.

Talia Benett. Her presence across the room startles me. She wasn’t on the guest list—someone from the media team must have slipped her in, probably desperate to impress. She sits near the middle, notebook open, head bowed as if she’s praying. She keeps her eyes low, careful not to catch mine.

I notice how she steals glances at the room, how her pen never quite stops moving, how she tries—futilely—to become invisible in a nest of predators.

My gaze finds her again and again, like a habit I can’t quite break.

It isn’t just suspicion, though that would be reason enough.

She is beautiful. Striking in her simplicity, with that wild hair tamed into a braid, lips pressed together in concentration.

There’s something arresting in the way she holds herself, self-contained and alert, as if every nerve is awake.

Most women here are lacquered and flawless, each movement rehearsed.

Talia is something else entirely: present, watchful, real in a room where everything else is artifice.

Her beauty is not the obvious kind, and perhaps that is why it unsettles me. It’s the curve of her jaw, the darkness of her eyes, the gravity she gives to stillness. She does not try to charm; she does not perform.

That, I find, is the greatest seduction of all.

Markian notices my distraction. He follows my line of sight, grins behind his glass. “One of yours?”

I don’t take the bait. “She’s a new assignment. Quiet. Smart. A puzzle.”

He chuckles, but the look he gives Talia is more careful than teasing. He knows better than to underestimate anyone I’m interested in—even for the wrong reasons.

Dinner begins. Silverware clinks. The host’s speech is all history and pride, more for the younger generation than anyone else. Around us, the conversation becomes a blur of coded language and careful posturing. Deals are made with the lift of a glass, betrayals seeded in a glance.

I see Talia jot notes into her phone, thumb quick and discreet. “Social media prep,” she’ll claim if asked, and everyone will pretend to believe it. I watch her eyes flicker over each guest, tracing connections, making mental maps.

Yelena settles beside me, her hand slides along my shoulder as she leans down to kiss my cheek—a perfectly staged tableau.

Her lips are cool and perfumed. I do not move, do not react.

Our engagement was arranged by men who died before either of us could protest. It is a performance, one I have learned to endure.

Yelena is beautiful, yes, but there is poison under her skin. Vanity etched deep in her bones, manipulation like a birthright. She treats the staff as disposable, her words as whips.

I watch her dismiss a server with a flick of her hand, irritation flashing when the wine is not to her taste. Every interaction is a lesson in cruelty, played out for the guests like a ballet. I let it wash over me, giving nothing in return.

She takes the seat to my left, crossing her legs, diamond-shod foot tapping impatiently.

She glances at Talia, assessing, already cataloging competition, even if she has no reason to.

That is Yelena’s way. She senses challenge before it’s named.

I know the way her mind works: charm the ones she needs, destroy the ones she doesn’t. I have long since tired of her games.

I feel the irritation simmer in my chest, masked by stillness. The only sign is the way my fingers tap once, silent against the linen napkin.

Markian distracts me with a story—something about a botched shipment in Novosibirsk, made comic by his drawl and pantomime.

The table laughs, tension breaking for a moment.

But my mind keeps circling back to Talia.

The way she tries not to be seen, the way she cannot help but watch. The way she surprises me, every time.

The dinner drags on, each course a new opportunity for coded conversation, for power to shift hands beneath the tablecloth. I drink little, eat less, let the talk flow around me. I observe. I collect debts.

Every so often, I catch Talia looking at me. When our eyes meet, she looks away too quickly, as if scalded by the attention. I wonder what she thinks she sees.

Yelena whispers a cutting remark in my ear—something about the “media girl,” meant to provoke. I don’t take the bait. Let her preen and poison the air; I have no use for it tonight. My thoughts are elsewhere.

The second course is served: venison, bloodred and perfect, the kind of meal meant to signal both wealth and the capacity for violence.

Silver forks glint under the chandelier as the servers glide between us, faces careful, movements drilled to the edge of invisibility.

Conversation softens around the arrival of food. It is always this way—business retreats, masks slip for a moment, knives sharpened under the surface while everyone pretends to relax.

My eyes find Talia again before I can stop myself.

She’s sitting almost directly across the table, posture straight but not stiff, her hands folded on the tablecloth beside her phone.

She has that look again. She’s only half listening, half elsewhere, but never truly distracted.

Every detail, she takes in, turning it over in her mind.

I realize too late that I am staring. Yelena notices. Of course she does. She is sharp as acid and twice as corrosive. She leans close, her voice pitched low so only I can hear, but bright enough that the malice shines right through.

“That girl with the cheap blouse and big eyes… is she our future press secretary?”

She laughs, a sound as brittle as shattered glass.

It’s a performance for the table, gentle mockery, a harmless joke.

Beneath the surface is venom, pure and undiluted.

Yelena’s hand lands lightly on my forearm, the weight of diamonds cool and deliberate.

I keep my face neutral, but my jaw tightens by a fraction.

The only sign I give her that I even register her game.

Yelena’s nails trace small, idle patterns on my skin as she leans in further, lowering her voice to a whisper only I can hear. “Or perhaps you have a new taste for shy little journalists. You always did like your projects.” Her tone is sweet, but the words bite.

I do not reply. There is nothing to say that will not give her more ammunition, and I have learned, painfully, that you do not win by playing Yelena’s games.

You win by refusing to play at all. I withdraw my arm from her touch with practiced subtlety, picking up my fork and slicing the venison with calm, mechanical precision.

Yelena’s attention shifts, but not before she flicks her eyes toward Talia, narrowing them in calculation. She will remember this. She remembers every slight, every shift in attention.

I feel a surge of irritation—not because I care about her jealousy, but because it means Talia will not go unnoticed tonight. Yelena is territorial. Cruelty is her sport, and she enjoys fresh prey.

I look toward Talia again. She does not flinch under Yelena’s gaze, nor mine.

Her head is slightly bowed, her hair falling forward, casting a shadow over her features.

She does not speak, does not even glance up, but there is something in the stillness of her hands, the set of her shoulders, that does not read as submission.

It reads as calculation, as restraint. As if she is listening not for approval, but for the crack in the facade, the moment the table’s attention shifts.

I have seen many types of fear at this table—genuine terror, feigned indifference, arrogance masquerading as bravery.

What Talia shows is none of those. She is careful, not cowed.

That difference unsettles me. It draws me back to her, again and again, as if I might solve the puzzle if I stare long enough.

Yelena picks up her wine, swirling it slowly, eyes never leaving Talia. “You know, darling,” she says, her voice pitched just above the general conversation, “we should really put the new girl to work. Surely someone as observant as she is could help us manage all these… public perceptions.”