Page 19 of Plus-Size Curves for the Bratva

I stand, ready to follow her in to get things off my chest, when I hear the door click lock.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath. I want to give her the space she needs, but how long is this going to continue? I head back to my seat on the couch, trying to flip through a book for distraction. But, nothing can take my mind off her.

I know she's trying to avoid me. It's been three days since that disastrous phone call, and she's changed her entire routine. No more morning coffee with the paper in the kitchen where we used to "accidentally" bump into each other. No more walking past my office. No more leaving the door to her workroom unlocked.

Damn it, Natalia,I say to myself, putting aside the book.You’re too stubborn for your own good.

I see her emerge again hours later, carrying some needles and yarn in her hand. I'm tempted to march right up to her and confront her. But no, I need to be patient. I need to give her time.

***

A week later, I've made up my mind. This dance of avoidance has gone on long enough. It's time to confront Natalia directly.

"Time to put the cards on the table," I mutter, pushing away from my desk.

I know exactly where to find her. Her workroom, her sanctuary. It's where she goes when she needs to think, to breathe. I make my way there, my stride purposeful.

I pause at the door, wondering if I should knock. But then, I decide there’s no point. She’ll only deny me entry. With fingers crossed, I turn the knob, and to my surprise, it’s not locked.

For once. She must have forgotten to do so today.

I take it as a sign from the gods and step in. I spot her immediately. Natalia's dark blonde hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few stray strands framing her face. She's hunched over a sketchbook, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Natalia hasn't noticed me yet. I make my way toward her. My heart races, but I keep my expression neutral, controlled.

"Hello, Natalia," I say softly, now standing before her.

She looks up, those gorgeous eyes widening in surprise, then narrowing with a mix of emotions, mostly hinting at anger. It's clear to me that this conversation won't be easy. But then again, nothing worth having ever is.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" I ask.

Natalia's eyes flash, a spark of defiance igniting in their depths. "I haven't been avoiding you," she says, but her words lack conviction. "I've just been… busy."

I can't help but smirk. "Busy enough to change your entire routine? To duck back into your room when you see me coming?" I lean in closer.

She shifts in her chair, her fingers drumming nervously on her sketching table. "Maybe I just needed some space," she snaps, her tone sharp as a blade. "Did you ever think of that, Denis? That not everything revolves around you and your… world?"

I feel a twinge of frustration, but I push it down. "My world includes you now, whether you like it or not," I say, my eyes never leaving hers. "And I'm trying to understand why you're pushing me away."

Natalia's jaw clenches, her stubbornness evident in the set of her shoulders. "You want to know why?" she hisses, leaning forward. "Because I saw a side of you that terrifies me. That phone call, the way your brother spoke… It was like you were a different person."

I feel a pang in my chest. She's right, of course. There are parts of me that would terrify her. But there's so much more she doesn't see, and I want her to catch a glimpse ofthat.

“Come with me one day,” I suggest. “See what I do. The operations I run, the people we employ, the families we help stay afloat. It’s not all bad, Natalia. You have to see it to believe it.”

I hold her stare, willing her to see the truth in my eyes.

But what she does next makes me lose all hope. She stands and gathers her papers, mumbling an excuse about how she has a call scheduled with a factory in China, and the next thing I know, she leaves without giving me a clear answer.

***

Once again, she’s back to avoiding me. Two whole days of barely enthusiastic good mornings. No meals, shut doors. I’m frustrated beyond belief, unable to work or focus on anything anyone needs of me.

This can’t keep happening. We can’t keep living like this, two strangers under one roof.

On the third morning, I wake at the crack of dawn and wait for that familiar creak of her door. An hour later, I hear her move down the stairs, soft sock-padded footsteps. She’s stopped wearing shoes around the house to keep her goings and comings secret. To ensure she stays out of my way.

Without wasting a breath, I grab my robe and head in her direction. I know where she’s going. I find her in the kitchen, and as expected, bang into her in the doorway. She’s got a mug of steaming hot coffee in her hand and is trying to run right back into her little hole.

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