Page 11 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

His gaze flicks down to the screen, and I see it before he picks it up—the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way the corner of his mouth tightens ever so slightly. It’s subtle, but not invisible.

“Excuse me,” he says softly, rising from his chair. “Just a minute.”

He steps out of the office, phone to his ear before he even closes the door.

Just like that, the air changes.

I sit still, suddenly aware of the silence he leaves behind. It isn’t the same quiet from before. This one feels… held. Like something’s waiting. My fingers tighten slightly on the armrest. I glance around the office again—at the stacks of paperwork, the books on social welfare, the old photograph of a much younger William standing in front of the orphanage with half a dozen children. One of them is me.

He never says who funds this place. Never talks about how the lights stay on, or why certain things—better mattresses, school laptops, winter coats—seem to appear right before they’re needed. I always figured there were donors. Rich ones. The silent kind who want nothing to do with the kids themselves.

Still. That phone call…

I glance toward the door. I can’t hear much, just the murmur of William’s voice through the hallway. The tone—something in it feels different. Not the usual kindness or ease. It’s clipped. Low. Controlled.

My stomach tightens.

I shouldn’t read into it. He’s the chairman of a struggling nonprofit. Of course he gets calls. Of course they’re stressful.

When he returns, just a few minutes later, there’s a slight flush to his skin. He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve before stepping back inside.

“Apologies,” he says, smiling again—but it’s a touch too smooth now. “Just logistics.”

I nod, trying not to frown. “Everything alright?”

“Of course.” He waves a hand, returning to his seat. “Where were we?”

The ease is gone. In its place, something else settles—a quiet, invisible thread running beneath the conversation. I see it in the way his fingers tap now, slower, more deliberate. The way his eyes flick to the clock more often than before.

Whatever that call was, it wasn’t nothing.

William tries to carry on like nothing happened, but the thread of unease stays wound tight beneath his voice. He asks about the hospital next, whether I’ve had any memorable cases, if the staff treats me well. I give him half answers, the kind that keep conversation going without revealing too much. My thoughts keep drifting back to that call—what I heard in his voice, and more importantly, what I didn’t.

He smiles at something I say, then sobers again. “Your apartment? Still in the same place?”

I nod. “Fourth floor. Radiator still makes that awful groaning noise at night.”

“Ah, charming urban ambiance.”

“Something like that.”

He shifts in his chair, rubbing at the side of his neck. “You’re still working nights?”

“Most of the time. I’ve got another shift tonight.” I glance at the old clock above the filing cabinet. “Should probably head back soon, try to sleep for a couple hours.”

He frowns, but it’s not disapproval. “I worry about you, Elise.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You always worry.”

“True.” He pauses. “There’s something in your eyes I haven’t seen before. You’re more… guarded. Like you’re bracing for something.”

That gives me pause. I look down, my thumb tracing the inside seam of my coat. “You’re not wrong.”

“You could stay here for a while,” he says quietly. “If the city gets too loud. The old guest room’s still got your books on the shelf.”

The offer makes my chest tighten. I almost say yes. Almost. I’ve built a life outside these walls. A life I have to keep facing, even when it bruises me.

“I appreciate that,” I say instead, standing. “Really, but I’ll be okay.”

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