Page 54 of Married to the Bratva

“Ever heard of knocking?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I plop the notepad onto his desk, ignoring the jab. “Ever heard of saying ‘thank you’ when someone cracks part of your impossible file? I found this.”

He picks up the pad, his eyes scanning the numbers. For a moment, there’s no reaction—no flicker of emotion, no sign of whether this means anything to him. Then he leans back, tossing the pad onto the desk.

“Coordinates. For what?”

I roll my eyes, leaning against the desk. “You could at least pretend to be impressed. That took me hours.”

“I never doubted you’d crack the code,” he replies, his tone maddeningly calm.

“Okay, great,” I say, throwing my hands up. “But you could show a little enthusiasm. I mean, I just handed you the first real lead in days. Maybe say, ‘Good job, Sophie,’ or, I don’t know, smile?”

He smirks faintly, setting the glass down. “Do I strike you as the smiling type?”

“Not even a little,” I shoot back. “But you could try. Just once. For morale.”

His gaze sharpens slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I wasn’t aware you needed more than a financial incentive to work for me.”

I glare at him, the tension between us crackling like static. “Well, lucky me. Guess I’ll just have to keep doing it without your approval.”

He studies me for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then he picks up the notepad again, flipping it over in his hand. “You did well,” he says finally, his voice quieter now.

The admission is so soft I don’t believe it. But it’s there, and for a second, I think I see something in his eyes—something raw, unguarded. It’s gone in a blink, replaced by the usual steel.

“Was that so hard?” I ask, though my tone is lighter now.

“Don’t push it,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

I smirk, heading for the door. “Well, this has been fun. Let me know when you’re ready to share what those coordinates mean.”

As I reach the doorway, he speaks again, his voice stopping me in my tracks. “Sophie.”

I glance back, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

His gaze is steady, his expression unreadable. “You look pale. Get some rest.”

I frown. “I have been feeling nauseous but I’ve been starting at the screen for the last six hours.”

“Now’s a good time to take a break. I’ll have a bath run for you.”

“Won’t all the water splash out?”

He laughs, the sound genuine for once. “Good one.”

39

SOPHIE

It hits me like a freight train—sudden and overwhelming, leaving no time to prepare. One second, I’m in the bath, and the next, I’m rushing to the toilet, my stomach flipping like a storm-tossed ship.

I barely make it, gripping the edge as my knees threaten to buckle.

The nausea crashes over me in waves, and when it finally subsides, I’m left staring at the floor, my heart pounding.

“This can’t be happening,” I whisper, staggering over to the sink. I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face.

I haven’t been feeling right for days—small things I chalked up to stress or bad food. But now I’ve missed a period too. And the nausea keeps coming.

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