Page 51 of The Bratva Bosses' Surrogate

I smile, lost in the memories. “She believed in education, believed it was our way out of the life we were born into. She’d sit with me every night, going over my schoolwork, making sure I understood everything. It was her encouragement that pushed me to apply for university.”

“You went to university? What did you study?” Ivan looks intrigued.

“Yes, I studied at a university. I studied...” I hesitate, wondering how much to reveal. “Psychology.”

“Weird. That didn’t show up in your background check.”

I shrug, a small smile playing on my lips. “I, uh, haven’t told you everything about my background.”

Perhaps, it’s time to say it now. He deserves to know.

Chapter 20

Ivan

There’s a small silence while I wait for her to continue. When she doesn’t, I prompt her, deciding to start with her university studies and not her background. “Psychology?” I repeat, my interest genuinely piqued. It’s a piece of the puzzle which doesn’t fit with the picture I’ve been painting of Sofia in my mind. My sources are thorough; missing something as significant as a university degree is not a mistake they would make. “That’s an interesting choice. Why didn’t we find this in your background check?”

She gives me a look, a mix of defiance and mischief. “Maybe because I haven’t told you everything about myself,” she says, her voice steady, but I catch a flicker of something else. Is it apprehension? Or perhaps it’s the thrill of revealing secrets kept too long in the shadows.

“And why is that?” I ask, my tone even, betraying none of my burgeoning curiosity. I lean back, giving her space to unfold her story, but my gaze remains locked on hers, unyielding.

“I know I haven’t told you everything and, um, I kind of did this to escape my old life. To start anew.”

“What was wrong with your old life?” I find myself asking, not sure I’m prepared for the answer.

Sofia brings up her past again. “You know how I mentioned living with my mother until I was fifteen. And how my dad was abusive—”

“And I proposed killing him,” I interject.

She chuckles, a sound that’s somehow both sad and sweet. “Yeah, I remember.”

“What happened after that?” I probe, genuinely curious. Her history, her pain, it matters to me more than I expected.

“I studied psychology because I wanted to understand him, to understand me. But I couldn’t find the answers I wanted.” She pauses, her gaze drifting to something unseen. “Then, my mother, she died. I was truly alone.”

The weight of her admission hangs heavy between us. Her journey, marked by loss and a quest for understanding, suddenly makes her more real, more relatable.

“You were looking for answers in psychology,” I say softly, encouraging her to continue.

“Yes, and in a way, I found some. Not about him, but about human behavior, about resilience and survival. It helped me understand that some people are just, well, broken. And no amount of wanting or studying can fix them.”

Curiosity edges its way into my thoughts, pushing against the boundaries she’s set with her story. “How did you manage to start anew? To erase your background?”

“It wasn’t easy,” she begins, her eyes meeting mine with a directness that’s both disarming and captivating. “After my mother passed away, I realized if I wanted to escape the shadow of my family’s mistakes, I had to disappear. Completely. Because my father was in town and looking for me.”

I lean in, intrigued despite myself. Disappearing is a concept I’m familiar with, but it’s a drastic step, fraught with complexities and risks.

“I saved every penny, did odd jobs, and learned how to cover my tracks. I changed my name, moved cities. I became a ghost, leaving no trace of my former life behind.”

“And nobody ever suspected?”

“People see what they want to see. If you’re careful enough, you can hide in plain sight. And psychology helped, understanding how to manipulate perceptions, how to blend in.”

I study her. The way her lips tremble, how her pretty eyes brim with unshed tears, and the way she seems to shrink beneath her own words. Shit. She’s like a broken doll trying to glue herself back together.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to protect her, to make her mine. I don’t do vulnerable, but here I am, obsessing over a woman who’s clearly been through hell.

She’s staring at me now, waiting for my reaction. I don’t give her much, just a curt nod and a gravelly, “Go on.”

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