Page 53 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
I sit up, careful not to shift the sheets too loud, and reach for the clothes I laid out earlier—neutral colors, nothing that’ll catch on the security feeds. Soft cotton, bare feet, hair tied back. No perfume. No rings. Just my hands and a purpose.
The halls are quiet, same as yesterday. The staff always vanish around this time—lunch breaks staggered, guards rotated, no one around to ask questions. I slip through the corridor like I’ve always belonged here. Like I know which floorboards creak and which corners to avoid. My pulse is steady, my steps measured. The cameras in the east wing are still running their nightly diagnostics. I made sure of that.
Maxim’s study door isn’t locked.
I push it open and step inside. That scent hits me all over again—leather, musk, the bitter trace of whatever cologne clings to his suits. It’s him. It lives in the grain of the desk, the velvet of the chair, the air between the walls. I breathe it in, stupidly, before I move.
The laptop is where I left it. Closed. Untouched.
I slide into his chair, fingers trembling slightly as I flip the lid open. The login screen glows blue, almost gentle. Familiar now. His password still holds. Arrogant bastard.
I open my breach software, clicking through the scripts I spent years perfecting. The firewalls groan. Then crack. The hidden folders unspool across the screen like a trick of the light.
There it is:Obelisk-12.
My throat tightens as I click.
Inside, the truth spills out in cruel, elegant lines. Twelve names—names I know. Names everyone knows. CEOs. Politicians. Tech giants. Courtroom architects of whole nations. These are the people who move wars with signatures and sell peace like product. None of them should be in a Bratva archive.
But they are.
Each has a folder. I open the first. Inside: grainy photos of an affair, timestamped. Another: offshore accounts linked to embezzled relief funds. Another: audio clips of a late-nightphone call discussing backdoor arms deals. They keep going. Every file worse than the last. This isn’t business.
It’s power. Control.
This isn’t networking. It’s leverage. Blackmail, curated with precision. Obedience bought with ruin.
I lean back slowly, the air knocked from my lungs.
No wonder they all kneel when Maxim speaks. He doesn’t need armies. He has this.
I copy the entire Obelisk-12 folder without hesitation. My fingers fly across the keys, dragging the files into the hidden drive patched into the laptop’s side port. The transfer bar appears—steady, slow, mercilessly visible.
Thirty percent. Sixty. Eighty-five.
I don’t breathe. Every second stretches like wire pulled tight. My mind shouts through the silence, a thousand thoughts at once. I can’t afford a mistake. Can’t afford a delay.
Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.
One hundred. The bar vanishes.
My lungs fill in a rush, as though I’ve surfaced from deep water. I yank the drive free and tuck it where no search will find it—beneath the strap of my bra, flush against my skin. The plastic casing bites into my ribs, but I welcome the sting. It’s real. It’s proof.
Maxim doesn’t build alliances. He builds chokeholds. This isn’t a marriage—it’s a leash. A gilded collar sealed with power and held in silence. He doesn’t need to threaten anyone. He only needs to remind them. I wonder how many names I know. How many smiles in my life were built on this.
My heart slams harder. My hands begin to sweat.
Then I hear it. Heels. Not stomping, not impatient. Measured. Sharp. Rhythmic.
Not a guard.
My entire body goes cold.
That sound doesn’t belong to any of the women who clean this wing. Not during break. Not on this floor. It’s too late, too precise. That is not the walk of someone passing through. That is someone entering.
Panic kicks every thought into place.
I slam the laptop shut. The sound echoes too loud. Too final.
