Page 30 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I set the table, placing the tray at his seat. I pour the coffee, the steam rising in a fragrant, bitter cloud.

Then I wait.

It doesn’t take long. The front door opens, the heavy thud echoing through the penthouse. Footsteps approach, confident and rhythmic.

Nikita walks into the kitchen.

He looks fresh, wide awake. He’s wearing a suit, dark gray with a faint pinstripe, tailored perfectly to his lean frame. He’s checking his phone, his attention divided.

He looks up, and his eyes land on me.

Then on the table.

He pauses. His gaze lingers on the tray, on the effort I’ve put into the presentation. For a second, I think he sees through it. I think he’s going to laugh at me or demand I make something else.

“Good morning,” he says instead, his voice smooth. “You’re up early.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I reply, leaning back against the counter and crossing my arms. “I made breakfast.”

Walking over to the table, he inspects the tray. He takes in the eggs, the toast, the coffee. “Thank you,” he says.

“I’m not the best cook,” I say, keeping my voice light, casual. “I thought you wouldn’t like it.”

He pulls out his chair and sits down. Unfolding the napkin, he places it across his lap.

“Sit,” he commands, not looking at me.

“I’m not hungry, I already ate.”

“Sit.”

I pull out the chair opposite him and sink into it. My heart is hammering against my ribs. Is he really going to eat it? Is his ego so massive that he can’t admit his wife tried to poison him?

He picks up his fork.

I watch, mesmerized, as he scoops up a mound of the salt-laden eggs. He lifts the fork to his mouth.

I hold my breath.

He takes a bite.

He pauses for a fraction of a second. His jaw tightens, just a twitch. Then he reaches for his coffee cup.

He takes a sip of the bitter, foul sludge. He doesn’t spit it out. He just swallows, his throat bobbing. He continues eating. It’s the most infuriating thing I’ve ever seen.

“You’re eating it,” I blurt out, unable to stop myself.

He looks up at me, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. His expression is faintly amused, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“Of course I am.”

“Why?” I demand. “It’s… it’s terrible. I know it is.”

He sets the fork down and dabs his mouth with the napkin. “It’s not about the taste, Freya,” he says, his voice low and resonant.

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about the gesture.”