Page 16 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

“Freya?” I call out, not expecting an answer.

Silence greets me.

I move deeper into the apartment, my boots making no sound on the hardwood. It’s clean, curated in a way that suggests she cares about appearances, but it’s personal. A chaotic kind of order. Sketches are pinned to a corkboard near the window: fashion designs, architectural lines, fluid shapes that speak to a creative mind I hadn’t fully appreciated.

Fabric samples are draped over the back of a sofa, vibrant splashes of silk and velvet against the neutral tones. Mood boards lean against the wall, filled with torn-out magazine pages, color swatches, and photographs.

She builds things. She plans things.

I knew she was an influencer, a manager of events, but seeing the physical evidence of her work shifts my perspective. She’s not just a pretty face posting photos. She’s an architect.

That explains the exposé. It wasn’t just revenge; it was a project. She saw a narrative that didn’t fit and tried to edit it.

My eyes scan the room, looking for clues. A half-empty mug of coffee on the counter, still lukewarm. Her phone charger is gone.

She left in a hurry.

Annoyance pricks at the back of my neck. We have a schedule to keep. We have appearances to make. Her absence isn’t just a breach of protocol; it’s a breach of the agreement she made last night in the car.

Pulling out my own phone, I bring up the tracking app I installed on her device before we left the Met last night. A small red dot blinks on the map.

She’s not at a boutique or at a salon.

She’s near Washington Square Park.

Frowning, I stare at the location. It looks like she’s at a café. Who is she meeting?

Sliding the phone into my pocket, I turn and leave the apartment, locking the door behind me. The ride is short, but the traffic clogs the streets, slowing my progress. The irritation grows, festering into something sharper.

By the time the town car pulls up to the curb, I’m already running scenarios in my head. Did she run? Is she meeting a journalist? Is she foolish enough to think she can disappear on me?

The café is a hipster haunt with exposed brick and mismatched furniture. The smell of roasted beans is overpowering the air.

I step out of the car, adjusting my coat. I don’t rush. I never rush.

Through the large plate-glass window, I scan the room, and I see her.

She’s in the back corner, tucked away in a booth that offers a clear view of both the entrance and the street. Smart, but she’s not alone.

A man sits across from her. He’s leaning in, his body language intense, focused entirely on her. He’s not a friend. Friends don’t occupy each other’s space like that. He looks worn—messy hair, unshaven, wearing a jacket that’s seen better days.

Freya is listening, her expression unreadable.

Something hot and violent uncoils in my stomach.

I don’t recognize the man. I don’t need to. The fact that he exists is enough. The fact that she is sitting there, listening to him, keeping secrets from me, is a violation.

Pushing open the door, the bell chimes overhead. The noise of the café—a dull roar of conversation and espresso machines—fades for a split second as heads turn. They know who I am. Or they know what I am. Money radiates off me, and danger follows close behind.

I walk straight to the back.

Freya sees me first. Her head snaps up, her eyes widening in shock. She starts to stand, but I’m already there.

“Going somewhere?” I ask, my voice calm. Bored.

“Nikita,” she breathes, her face paling. “What are you doing here?”