Page 41 of Married to the Bratva

“Come on, Sophie,” I mutter under my breath. “You’ve dealt with worse.”

But have I? This isn’t just some college algorithm assignment or a corporate breach for a faceless client. This is bigger, scarier, and tied to a man who’s somehow managed to wedge himself into every corner of my life in just a few days.

I glance down at my notes, pages of scribbled patterns and half-thought-out ideas. Encryption doesn’t just change like this, not without someone pulling the strings. That’s what Dr. Park said. Someone’s interfering, trying to stop me solving this problem.

I adjust the settings, ignoring the encryption. I start hunting, tracing IP access to the file via the mansion’s wifi. Will I find Evan at the end of this trail?

My mind drifts to Evan, the golden boy who turned out to be nothing but fool’s gold. I trusted him, let him charm me into thinking we were building a life together. And look wherethat got me—running down a rainy street in a wedding dress, betrayed by the two people I thought I could count on. I haven’t even heard from Lila since that day. Some friend she turned out to be.

I lean forward, scanning the file again. The patterns are clearer now, the tampering obvious now I know what to look for. Whoever did this tried not to leave a trail. They’re smart. But not smarter than me.

Grabbing a pen, I start jotting down notes. Every shift, every anomaly, every clue. If I can pinpoint the interference, I’ll know where to look next. I leave a false trail, making it look like I’m still beavering away at the encryption.

But as I work, a nagging thought tugs at the back of my mind: what happens when I figure it out? Do I tell Maxim? What if I’m wrong? I’ve no doubt once I name names, I’m also signing a death warrant. I better be sure before I do anything.

The door creaks, and I jump, spinning around in my chair. Maxim stands in the doorway, his dark silhouette framed by the hallway light. He steps inside, closing the door softly behind him.

“You’re still awake,” he says, his voice low, accusing.

“I could say the same about you,” I reply, my heart pounding from the scare. “Do you always sneak up on people in the middle of the night, or am I just special?”

He smirks faintly, moving closer. “It’s not sneaking if I’m in my own house.”

“Well, congratulations,” I say, crossing my arms. “You’ve officially added ‘unsettling night watchman’ to your resume.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looks at my desk—the scattered notes, the half-empty coffee cup, the glowing screen of my laptop. “You’re not making this easy on yourself,” he says, gesturing to the mess.

“I work better this way,” I shoot back. “Not everyone thrives in a world of order and control.”

“Clearly,” he says, but there’s no malice in his tone. If anything, there’s a flicker of something softer, something amused.

He steps closer, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne—earthy, with a hint of spice. My heart does a stupid little flip, and I hate myself for it.

“Do you ever regret it?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

His brow furrows. “Regret what?”

“This,” I say, gesturing around us. “Your life. All this peril.”

He stiffens, his expression hardening, but his eyes betray a flicker of something deeper—pain, maybe, or something close to it. “Regret isn’t useful,” he says finally. “It’s a distraction.”

“That’s not an answer,” I press, sitting up straighter. “You’re telling me you’ve never second-guessed yourself? Not even once?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to snap at me. But instead, he exhales slowly, leaning against the edge of my desk. “Second-guessing gets you killed in my world,” he says, his voice softer now. “You make a decision, and you live with it. Or you die.”

He looks down at me, his gaze searching, as if he’s trying to figure out why I’m asking—or maybe why I care.

“Do you regret yours?” he asks suddenly, throwing my question back at me.

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“Your choices,” he says. “Do you regret them?”

The question hits harder than I expect. My mind flashes to Evan. “Every damn day,” I admit quietly. “I wanted to believe he’d fund my work,” I say. “What if you’re the same?”

For a long moment, neither of us says anything. The air between us is heavy, but not uncomfortable. It feels… real, in a way I didn’t expect.

Maxim straightens, breaking the moment. “Get some sleep,” he says, his voice back to its usual controlled tone. “You look like you need it.”

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