Page 39 of Bratva's Intern

I washed my hands, then ran after Maxim, who was chatting with Archie. The much slender man reached up and brushed something from Maxim’s jacket. My stomach hardened. They seemed close. Perhaps too close for a boss and employee. Were they together?

Maxim spoke to Archie in hushed, clipped tones. Theurge to flee back into the restroom struck, but I willed my feet to remain where they were.

They were talking about me.

I could feel it. The way Archie’s arms were crossed, his head tilted in thatI-told-you-soway of his. The way Maxim’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his shoulders squared in irritation.

The way they both stopped talking the moment I got close.

A lump lodged itself in my throat. I clenched my hands at my sides as I slowed my steps, pretending I hadn’t noticed.

Archie didn’t mask his bothered expectation as he looked me up and down. I always thought he liked me, but he’d been short with me since Maxim made me his PA. It was clear he didn’t approve of Maxim’s decision. I couldn’t blame him.

Maxim was unreadable, his dark gaze pinning me in place. “Ready?”

I nodded, keeping my face neutral, even though I felt anything but.

I wasn’t sure what I expected after that. Maybe another lecture or some last parting words from Archie about how unqualified I was. Instead, Maxim jerked his head toward the door and started walking.

I followed, ignoring the way my stomach twisted.

The lobby was cold, sterile, and crawling with Maxim’s men. I recognized Sergei, standing by the car, his gaze flicking toward me. He opened the door for Maxim.

I hesitated.

It still didn’t feel real—this life I’d been thrust into. A week ago, I was struggling to pay my half of the rent, wearing secondhand clothes. Now, I was stepping into an expensive town car with a billionaire who wanted to take me shopping.

Because he’s ashamed of the way you dress.

I needed to remind myself that Maxim wasn’t doing thisfor my pleasure. He simply didn’t want me to bring down the image of his company.

I slid into the seat beside him, stiff as a board.

Maxim didn’t acknowledge me and scrolled through his phone while Sergei drove through the city. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t comfortable. It was thick, brimming with something unsaid.

I let my gaze drift to the window, watching the streets blur by until the car finally pulled to a stop in front of a store I had never set foot in. No neon signs flashing. No sales banners. Just a simple name in gold lettering on a dark, polished facade.

I swallowed hard.

The second I stepped inside, I knew this was a place I could never afford in a million years. The place reeked of wealth. Of exclusivity. Of the kind of clientele that walked in without even looking at price tags because money was just a number to them.

I felt painfully out of place.

The shop was immaculate—soft lighting, sleek display tables, rows of impeccably tailored suits hanging on racks like pieces of art.

An older gentleman in a tailored black suit approached, his expression polite but assessing.

“Mr. Morozov,” he said smoothly, bowing his head. “It’s a pleasure to have you again.”

Maxim barely acknowledged him with a nod. “Etienne, this is the young man I told you about. He needs a full wardrobe.”

Etienne’s gaze swept over me, and I fought the urge to fidget. “Of course, sir.” He gestured toward a row of racks. “We’ll start with?—”

“Pick something,” Maxim said, his voice low, expectant.

I blinked. “What?”

Maxim exhaled, looking impatient. “Pick something. A suit. A shirt. Whatever catches your eye.”

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