Page 65 of Married to the Bratva

I say nothing. I don’t want an argument. I want to dream about a future I’ll never get to have, pretend it could be real.

ACT 3

47

SOPHIE

Iwake up to an empty bed, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am. Maxim’s bedroom.

The sheets still carry his scent—spicy, dark, a little dangerous—and the memory of last night makes my cheeks heat. But the man himself? Gone.

Mr. Workaholic probably started his day at 5 a.m. sharp, barking orders and terrifying his minions.

I stretch, the silk sheets whispering against my skin, and glance at the massive clock on the wall. 9 a.m. Great. I’m officially the lazy one in this arrangement.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I grab it, half-hoping it’s Maxim. But the screen lights up with Grandma.

“Hi, Grandma,” I answer, sitting up and wrapping the sheet around me like a toga. “What’s up? Don’t tell me you’re already bored of Rook’s Hollow.”

Her laugh is warm but strained. “I need you to come to my apartment. Here in Manhattan.”

I freeze, clutching the phone tighter. “The apartment? Why? You’re supposed to be relaxing in your new place.”

Her voice dips into a lower, more urgent tone. “Sophie, please. Don’t tell Maxim. Just come. I can’t talk about it over the phone.”

My heart skips a beat. “Grandma, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just come, Sophie. Please, hurry.”

“Grandma—”

The line clicks dead.

I stare at the phone, her words echoing in my head. Don’t tell Maxim.

I drop the phone onto the bed and press my palms to my forehead. Tell Maxim? Don’t tell Maxim?

It’s a lose-lose situation. If I tell him, he’ll be pissed that Grandma didn’t trust him. If I don’t tell him and something goes sideways, he’ll be even more pissed.

And by “pissed,” I mean terrifying.

“Damn it, Grandma,” I mutter, sliding out of bed. The marble floor is cold against my feet.

Grandma doesn’t call unless it’s serious, and she’s not the kind of person to cry wolf.

I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, the casual “nothing to see here” uniform.

My heart pounds as I slip into the hallway, every step echoing in the cavernous space. Maxim’s men are discreet, but they’re everywhere, which means I have to play it cool.

I collect the keys to one of Maxim’s cars and head for the parking garage. I’m halfway to the door when I run straight into Igor, one of Maxim’s hulking bodyguards. The man could double as a refrigerator with a grudge.

“Morning, Igor,” I say, flashing what I hope is a casual smile. “Just heading out for some air.”

His brows knit together like he’s trying to figure out if I’m a threat or just stupid. “Does Mr. Abramov know?”

“Oh, definitely. He said, and I quote, ‘Sophie, you’re so amazing, I trust you completely to do whatever you want.’” I wink for good measure.

Igor grunts. “I must inform him of your whereabouts.”

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