Page 45 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I look up at him, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Good.” He leans closer, his face inches from mine. “Wear it tonight. We’re going out.”

“Where?”

“To meet someone.”

“Who?”

“A friend.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He just turns and walks out of the room, leaving me standing there with the stone burning a hole in my chest.

I watch him go, my hand clenching around the phone in my pocket.

The photos are safe. The evidence is secure.

I touch the pendant, the gold chain biting into my skin.

I’m not just a victim anymore. I’m a player in this game, and I have the winning hand in my pocket.

I just have to figure out how to play it.

Chapter Fourteen - Nikita

The elevator doors slide open, and I step into the penthouse, bringing the cold winter air with me. The meeting with Kuznetsov had been tedious, a waste of hours I could have spent better elsewhere, but necessary. Internal politics are a swamp you couldn’t ignore unless you wanted to be dragged under.

I unbutton my coat, hanging it on the rack by the door. The penthouse is quiet, the kind of heavy, anticipatory silence that usually precedes a storm.

I spot her immediately.

She’s standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city. Her back is to me, stiff and unyielding. She’s wearing the pendant I gave her this morning, the gold chain glinting against her pale skin.

It’s the posture that gives her away. She’s not just looking out the window; she’s bracing herself.

Turning, I close the distance between us. My footsteps are silent on the marble, but she hears me. She tenses, her shoulders drawing up like a cat about to be cornered.

When she turns, the confirmation is instant.

It’s in her eyes. The green fire I’ve grown accustomed to has changed. It’s not just defiance anymore. It’s not just the usual resentment of a captive.

It’s accusation.

The realization hits me with a cold clarity. She found something. The question is, how much?

“Rough day?” I ask, keeping my tone casual. Conversational.

“Enlightening,” she counters. Her voice is calm, but there’s a tremor running underneath it, like a plucked violin string.

I walk past her to the bar, pouring myself a glass of water. I don’t look at her, but I can feel her gaze burning a hole in my back. Watching. Waiting.

“Did you get what you needed?” she asks.

“The meeting was a formality. Kuznetsov likes to hear himself talk.”

“And you like to let him.”