Page 15 of Married to the Bratva

“Cliché,” I mutter under my breath, and Maxim lets out a low chuckle beside me.

The explosions on the TV fade to a quieter scene, but the tension in the room doesn’t.

Maxim hasn’t said anything in a while, but I can feel his presence next to me like a weight pressing into the couch.

My heart hasn’t slowed since I sat down, and I hate that I’m hyperaware of him—the clean scent of his cologne, the way his arm brushes against mine, the fact that his suit still looks perfect while I’m a soggy mess.

“I’ll make this worth your while,” he says suddenly, his voice slicing through the relative calm. “Ten percent of what’s in that file if you can unlock it in time. That’s twenty million. What do you say?”

11

SOPHIE

Ihesitate, the offer hanging in the air like a poison cloud. The promise of money is tempting—I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t—but the price is too high.

“No,” I say firmly. “I’m not for sale.”

Maxim exhales through his nose, shaking his head slowly. “You’re not as smart as I thought. Why work on the file for free if you could get paid to do it?”

“I don’t want your blood money.”

He chuckles, low and humorless. “You’re in my world now, Sophie. Corruption is the currency here.”

“Well, I’m broke,” I say, standing up abruptly.

Maxim rises with me, his presence towering and unyielding. “This isn’t over,” he says, his voice calm but laced with warning.

“It is for me,” I reply, even though the tremor in my hands betrays me. “I should get back to it.”

“Why the rush? You said yourself that Evan’s not as good as you. We have a head start, right?”

He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. “You can pretend all you want, but we both know you don’t hate this as much as you say you do.”

My breath catches, and I force myself to meet his gaze. “You don’t know me.”

“You sure?” he says, his voice dropping lower.

The tension between us is suffocating, a crackling energy that makes my pulse race. I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he’s so close, or the fact that part of me doesn’t want him to move away.

Before I can respond, he steps back, giving me just enough space to breathe again. “Think about my offer,” he says, walking toward the door. “But don’t take too long. I have other IT experts and my patience has limits. I’ll go find out where your clothes are.”

The sound of the door closing behind him lingers, a soft click that echoes in the quiet suite. I stare at the space he just left, my chest tight, my pulse hammering in my ears.

The room is empty now, but his presence is still everywhere—on the couch where he sat, in the low hum of the conversation we just had, in the air that feels heavier than it should.

I only have to look over at the door to see the stains where the two bodies lay. Men he killed in front of my eyes. Why am I not more scared about that?

The only answer is that I know he would never hurt me. Despite his threats, I can see a deeper truth in his eyes. Why is that?

I stand and move to the windows, needing the distraction of the glittering Manhattan skyline. The city sprawls out before me, full of lives that are moving forward while mine feels like it’s been yanked off course. The warmth of the fire at my back contrasts sharply with the cold tension inside me.

My hands grip the cool glass as I lean forward, letting my forehead rest against it. My thoughts are a tangled mess.

Maxim’s sharp gaze, his relentless confidence, his offer—no, his demand. He thinks he knows me, thinks he has me figured out, and maybe he does, but I can’t let him win. I can’t.

And yet, part of me doesn’t want to fight him. Part of me is intrigued by him. By the way his presence fills a room. By the flashes of humor that feel like secrets he didn’t mean to share. By the sheer intensity of him that makes everything else feel distant and muted.

The door clicks open again, and I whirl around, my pulse jumping. Maxim steps back inside, closing the door behind him with quiet finality.

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