Page 63 of Sold to the Bratva
He offers no excuse, and I choose to let it go. As Oleg’s second-in-command, he’s always carried heavy responsibilities, but I’d hoped my pregnancy would rank higher than a cursory text every few weeks.
“I miss our talks,” he says after a moment, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “We used to check in every few days.”
“You asked a lot of questions about Isaac’s dealings,” I answer defensively. “And as I’ve told you before, I don’t get involved in Isaac’s business. That’s never been part of our relationship.”
Papa leans back, one brow arched as though I’ve said something outrageous.
“You’re his wife, Katya. You’re carrying his heir. You’re part of his business whether you like it or not.”
“I’m part of the family, yes,” I answer slowly, watching him carefully. “But I made it clear to Isaac that I didn’t want to be involved in his business. I don’t ask questions, and he doesn’t offer answers. We respect that boundary.”
He says nothing at first. His jaw flexes, eyes narrowing just enough to make me question whether I’ve disappointed him again. It’s an expression I know too well. But he recovers quickly, masking it behind a thin smile.
“You always were a stubborn one,” he mutters, taking a slow sip of his wine.
“I just want a different kind of life,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “If I’m not with Evie, I’m in the studio. My focus is on my art, the baby, and our future. His day-to-day dealings aren’t my business any more than my artwork is his.”
He taps a finger against the side of his glass.
“You’re not naïve, Katya. You know your future is directly tied to the business. It affects your finances and the safety of your family. Closing your eyes to it won’t change what you married into.”
“What youforcedmeto marry into,” I seethe. “And it’s not about closing my eyes. It’s about not letting it consume me. Maybe you don’t remember, because Mama died so long ago, but a husband and wife don’t have to share every single second of each other’s lives.”
His gaze sharpens. “Well, I’m certainly glad that your five minutes of marriage have made you into an expert,” he answers dryly. “I just think you’d be a little more interested in what your husband gets up to. But far be it from me to tell you how you should conduct your marriage.”
I study him, noting how his hands curl into fists and his expression tightens. Is he really angry that I fell in love with the husband he chose for me? Whatever’s wrong with him hovers just below the surface, unreachable. There’s an insurmountable distance between us, and I’m not sure anymore that I want to cross it.
He exhales slowly and sets his wineglass down. “I don’t want to live in that kind of energy,” I say, honest yet firm. “It isn’t healthy for a marriage, and I have enough to worry about with this baby. If that’s not what you envisioned when you sold me to the highest bidder, that’s on you, not me.”
I take a deep breath and steady myself. If Isaac were here, he’d want me to keep my blood pressure down. He’d squeeze my hand and give me a sympathetic smile and remind me to try to make peace.
“I’m not angry about the marriage anymore,” I say softly. “And I love the life I have with Isaac. But I can’t be your spy. I won’t.”
His expression hardens at that, but just as quickly, he forces a smile. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
Isn’t it? I don’t press the point. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones. Maybe I’m just tired. But something about this whole conversation sits wrong in my gut, and I’m not ready to dissect it.
I retrieve my coat from the chair, moving slowly. Papa rises with me, ever the gentleman, yet stiffness clings to his posture, something unreadable shadowing his eyes.
“What are you doing this weekend?” he asks as I sling my purse over my shoulder.
I pause, caught off guard. “Evie and I are hanging out,” I tell him. “We’ll probably go shopping and grab lunch.”
He nods, and for the first time all evening he seems genuinely at ease.
“That’s good. You need time with your friends.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
He walks me to the door and opens it with a quiet flourish. Cool, crisp night air wraps around me the moment I step onto the stoop.
“Stay safe, sweetheart,” he says, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder.
Something in his tone makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise, more warning than farewell, maybe even a plea.
I glance up, searching his eyes. “You too.”
He nods, and the door clicks shut behind me.
