Page 85 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

Makar slips his arm around my waist, pulling me close. “Did you have fun?” he asks, his voice low.

“I did,” I say, resting my head against his shoulder. “Thank you for coming.”

“Like I said,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple, “it’s your day.”

I smile, savoring the warmth of his presence. But before I can respond, he pulls back slightly, his blue eyes glinting with something unreadable.

“What?” I ask, tilting my head.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says, his smirk returning.

“A surprise?” I echo, raising an eyebrow.

“You’ll see,” he replies, his tone teasing.

My curiosity flares, but before I can press him further, he takes my hand, leading me toward the car. Whatever he has planned, I can’t help but feel a spark of excitement. With Makar, every moment feels like the start of something new.

Ten minutes later, the car pulls to a stop in front of a sleek building tucked into one of the quieter streets of the city. Its modern architecture glints in the moonlight, large glass panels giving glimpses of the softly lit interior.

I glance at Makar, my brow furrowing. “What is this?”

“Come inside,” he says, his smirk faint but tinged with something softer.

I hesitate for a moment before taking his outstretched hand. The warmth of his palm steadies me as we step out of the car. My heart races with curiosity as he leads me to the entrance.

Andrei is already there, Anatoly perched on his shoulders. My son beams at me, waving enthusiastically. “Mommy! Look, it’s so big!”

“It is,” I agree, smiling as I ruffle his hair.

Andrei lowers Anatoly to the ground, letting him dart to Makar’s side. Makar scoops him up effortlessly, his expression softening as our son wraps his arms around his neck.

I step closer to the glass doors, peering inside. My breath catches as I take in the scene.

Paintings line the pristine white walls, each piece illuminated by carefully placed lights. Sculptures stand on pedestals scattered throughout the room, their forms striking and intricate. The entire space is filled with life and creativity, a celebration of art in all its forms.

“Makar,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “What is this?”

He shifts Anatoly in his arms, nodding toward the door. “Go inside,” he says simply.

My hands shake as I push the door open, stepping into the gallery. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of fresh paint and polished wood.

“It’s yours,” Makar says, his voice low but steady.

I spin to face him, my eyes wide. “What?”

“This gallery,” he continues, his blue eyes locked on mine. “It’s for you. A place to showcase your work and the work of others. A place where you can build something lasting.”

I blink, my thoughts a whirlwind. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll use it,” he replies, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Tears prick my eyes as I glance around the room again, the enormity of the gesture sinking in. This isn’t just a gift—it’s a testament to everything we’ve built together.

“I don’t deserve this,” I murmur, shaking my head.

“Yes, you do,” Makar says firmly, stepping closer. “You’ve worked for this, Hannah. You’ve earned it.”

Anatoly squirms in his arms, reaching out to me. I take him, holding him close as he babbles excitedly about the room.

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