Page 55 of Used Bratva Bride

A simple phrase. Nonchalant. The way her expression falters—just for a fraction of a second—is enough to tell me it landed exactly how I expected it to.

She turns away before I can catch more, pretending to busy herself at the counter. I felt her hesitation. Saw the subtle flicker of disappointment before she masked it with indifference.

She wanted something more from me. The realization amuses me. I push my chair back, rising to my feet, straightening my sleeves with practiced ease. “I have work to do,” I say smoothly. “Enjoy your morning, wife.”

She stiffens at that word.

I let my smirk linger before leaving the room, my boots echoing against the marble floors.

I don’t turn back, but I don’t need to.

She’s thinking about it. About me.

She won’t admit it, but I know the effect I have on people. And Julie? She’s no different.

I head down the hall, fully prepared to put her out of my mind and focus on more pressing matters.

Then, just as I near my office, I hear the maid’s voice drifting from the kitchen.

“If he said not bad, that means he loved it.”

I slow my steps.

Julie’s voice follows, skeptical. “What?”

The maid chuckles. “He’s the pickiest eater I’ve ever seen. If he doesn’t like something, he won’t touch it. If he really enjoys something, he won’t say it outright. But if you get a ‘not bad’?” A pause. “That means he liked it.”

Silence. I don’t turn around. I don’t have to. I can feel the way Julie is standing there, processing what was just said.

I almost laugh. Of course, she’s thinking about it now. Wondering. Second-guessing. That’s exactly what I want.

I take a slow step back into the kitchen, just enough to catch the look on Julie’s face as she processes what the maid just told her.

She stands stiff, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, her lips slightly parted in what I suspect is frustration—or maybe something else. The warm morning light catches in her hair, making the strands glow like pale gold, her expression betraying her thoughts more than she realizes.

She wants to ignore what was just said, to brush it off. She can’t.

I smile.

The maid glances over her shoulder at me and immediately stiffens. She lowers her gaze and steps away from Julie, muttering something about needing to check on the laundry. I don’t stop her.

The moment she’s gone, Julie exhales and straightens, but her shoulders tense all over again when she realizes I haven’t left.

I step closer, slow, deliberate, my presence filling the space between us.

“You seemed interested in what she had to say,” I murmur, watching as her fingers tighten against the countertop.

She scoffs, feigning indifference. “Not particularly.”

“Lying, printsessa?”

She turns sharply, eyes narrowing. “I don’t care what you think about my cooking.”

I chuckle, stepping in just close enough to see the blush creeping up her neck. “Yet you seem very bothered by my reaction.”

Her jaw tightens, but her lips press together, struggling to hold back a retort. This is too easy.

I reach past her, my fingers brushing along the marble surface as I grab what’s left of the quiche, lifting a piece between my fingers. She watches, tense, as I take a careful bite, chewing thoughtfully.

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