Page 45 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

Her fork clinks against her plate as she sets it down, the tension in her shoulders palpable.

For now, I let the silence return, but I don’t miss the way her hands tremble faintly as she folds them in her lap.

She’s still fighting me.

Chapter Fifteen - Hannah

The mansion is eerily quiet in the early hours of the morning, the kind of silence that presses against your ears and makes every footstep sound like a thunderclap. I wander its endless halls, trying to make sense of my new reality, though the weight of it feels like a chain dragging behind me.

It’s not just the size of the mansion—it’s the way it feelsalivewith its own rules, its own secrets. The windows stretch almost floor-to-ceiling in some corridors, offering a view of the sprawling grounds. The lawn is perfectly manicured, bordered by rows of flowers and tall iron gates in the distance.

Even with all this space, I feel trapped.

I move aimlessly, trailing my fingers along the smooth banisters of the grand staircase and stopping occasionally to peer into rooms that are equal parts luxurious and uninviting. Every polished surface and ornate detail screams wealth, but it does nothing to ease the restlessness knotting in my chest.

My thoughts spin endlessly: about the child I’m carrying, the marriage I never wanted, and the man I can’t seem to understand. Makar is cold, calculating, a force I’ve yet to grasp fully. He doesn’t let me in, and I’m not sure I want to get in.

Eventually, my wandering leads me to the kitchen. It’s surprisingly warm and inviting compared to the rest of the house. Copper pots hang from hooks, the scent of freshly baked bread lingers in the air, and the morning light filters through small, lace-edged curtains above the sink.

A woman stands near the counter, wiping her hands on a towel. She’s in her late fifties, with soft, kind eyes and her gray-streaked hair pinned into a neat bun. She looks up when I step inside, her expression shifting into a small, polite smile.

“Hello, Mrs Sharov,” she says, her voice gentle but carrying a quiet authority.

I flinch slightly at the name, but manage a nod. “Hannah,” I correct softly.

“Of course,” she says, inclining her head. “Whatever you prefer.”

We stand there for a moment in awkward silence, and I realize how out of place I must look—lost in my own house.

“Would you like some tea?” Vera offers, her tone casual but kind.

I hesitate, but the warmth in her voice chips away at my defenses. “Sure,” I say finally.

Vera moves with practiced ease, pulling a kettle from the stove and filling it with water. As it heats, she sets a delicate china cup and saucer in front of me, along with a small dish of sugar and cream.

I sit at the kitchen table, my fingers tracing the edge of the saucer as she pours the steaming water over a tea bag and sets it down in front of me.

“Thank you,” I murmur, taking a tentative sip.

For a moment, we sit in companionable silence, the sound of the kettle cooling filling the room.

“You’ve been exploring the house,” Vera says after a while, her tone more observation than question.

“Yes,” I admit, glancing out the window. “It’s… overwhelming.”

“It takes time to adjust,” Vera replies gently. “I’ve been here for over thirty years, and even now, it surprises me.”

I blink, setting my cup down. “Thirty years? That’s… a long time.”

She nods, her expression softening with nostalgia. “It is. I’ve seen a lot of people come and go. But the house… it has its own way of holding on to things. Memories, I suppose.”

I pause, unsure if I want to delve further. Something about Vera’s calm presence feels grounding, and before I can stop myself, the words tumble out. “Does it get easier? Living here?”

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, her smile falters. “That depends on you,” she says honestly. “This place can feel like a fortress. It can also be a home, if you let it.”

I snort softly, shaking my head. “A home,” I echo, the word foreign and hollow on my tongue. “I’m not sure I even know what that means anymore.”

Vera studies me for a moment, her hands folding neatly in front of her. “A home isn’t about walls or wealth, Hannah. It’s about finding a way to make peace with where you are.”

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