Page 61 of Captured By the Bratva

My gaze drifts to the living room, the couch positioned in front of the TV, the throw pillows arranged in careful symmetry.

I can still feel the weight of Jimmy’s voice, the way he would comment on everything I did—the way I cleaned, the way I laughed at a joke on TV, the way I fidgeted when he wanted me to sit still.

A flash of a memory jolts me: Jimmy standing by the computer while I was trying to write, eyes narrowed as he criticized me for not taking his side on some trivial argument he was having online.

But then I think of Ivan. Cold, yes, intense, and mysterious, but also protective in ways Jimmy never was. When Ivan looks at me, he doesn’t make me feel small.

If anything, his gaze feels like a challenge, like he’s waiting for me to rise up and meet him. I feel safe with Ivan, even in his silence. With him, I don’t feel the need to shrink myself or mold myself into something else.

I make my way to the kitchen, where remnants of my old life sit untouched—the coffee mugs stacked neatly, a lone box of cereal on the counter. I remember standing here, making coffee early in the mornings, only for Jimmy to sweep in, criticize me for having sugar. “Going to get even fatter.”

He made every small thing feel monumental, every personal choice an insult to his authority. There were so many mornings I stood in front of the coffee maker, holding my breath as I waited for him to come in, not knowing what would set him off that day.

But then I think about Ivan in his kitchen, the way he made me coffee just the way I liked it, no criticism or expectations—just a simple act of care.

I remember his quiet attention, the way he seemed to remember every small preference, as though it mattered to him. With Ivan, I am my own person. He doesn’t ask me to change; he asks me to be more of who I am. And that difference… it feels monumental.

I turn back to the hallway, feeling a sense of calm wash over me. I’ve made my choice. This apartment, this life, it’s no longer mine. My fingers graze the wedding ring on my hand, and a small smile tugs at my lips. I’m not afraid anymore.

I’m done letting others control me, done living in a shadow of fear. Ivan’s darkness may be overwhelming at times, but it doesn’t consume me. It lets me shine.

One by one, I start pulling things from their places—clothes, a few books, a notebook I keep scribbled ideas in, things that matter enough to bring with me. This time, I’m leaving on my terms.

As I zip up the bag, I glance around one last time. This space has seen me at my lowest, but I won’t carry that with me. I close the door with a sense of finality, locking away the ghosts of who I used to be. I’m never coming back here again and that isn’t scary, it’s freeing.

44

CATHY

As I step back into Ivan’s mansion, the familiar shadows and towering walls no longer feel imposing but welcoming. The cool, dark air wraps around me like a protective cloak, a sensation I hadn’t expected.

For the first time, this place doesn’t feel like a cage; it feels like a home, one that I’ve chosen.

I make my way to his study, the room that often feels like the heart of his world. He’s there, standing by his desk, his gaze intense but unreadable as he watches me cross the threshold.

There’s a moment of silence between us, a charged pause, before I set my bags down by my feet and meet his eyes directly.

“You were right,” I say, my voice steady, though I can feel the last traces of nervousness melting away. “All my things were still at my apartment, untouched.”

“I’m glad you decided to come back,” he says. “Wasn’t sure you would.”

Taking a deep breath, I look around the study, then back at him, feeling a newfound confidence bubbling up. “I want to be here, Ivan. With you. But on my terms.”

I can see the surprise in his eyes, but he doesn’t interrupt as I continue. “No more contracts. No more locked doors. I choose to stay here because I want to, because I believe there’s something worth building between us.”

There’s a stillness in the air, and I let a small smile touch my lips. “Besides, I have that manuscript that needs finishing,” I add, gesturing to my bag. “And I can’t think of a better place to write than your library.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “The library is yours to use,” he replies, his tone softening in a way I haven’t heard before. “I’m sure it has everything you’ll need.” There’s a hint of warmth in his voice, and it reassures me that this choice, this life I’m choosing, feels right.

I pat my belly and smirk, feeling bold enough to tease him. “Well, there is one more thing. I’m going to need someone who can handle my pregnancy cravings,” I say, my eyes twinkling. “You did say something about traditional Russian snacks?”

Ivan raises an eyebrow, a rare smile curving his lips. “You have quite the appetite for someone so determined to call the shots,” he murmurs, his tone laced with a hint of humor that catches me off guard.

He lets the silence hang for a moment, then begins talking, his voice softened by something I haven’t heard before—a kind of warmth. “When I was young, my mother would make pirozhki for us,” he starts, his expression momentarily shifting as he slips into a memory. “Soft, warm rolls, stuffed with meat, potatoes, or sweet cheese.” His eyes meet mine, a flicker of surprise in them, as if he’s just realizing how much he remembers.

"And then blini, thin pancakes folded over sour cream or jam.” His face lights up, and there’s a hint of that rare smile again. He looks younger somehow, almost boyish, as he describes each dish. “I’d sneak extra when I thought no one was watching.”

He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow, the warmth fading slightly, but the glint of humor remains.

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