Page 61 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
I slip down the east wing hallway, every step silent against the gleaming marble. There aren’t any guards around here. Not even Zalar. That alone makes me suspicious.
His office door is slightly ajar. I push it open and step inside.
It’s colder in here. Like even the air respects him.
The space is vast and pristine, everything in perfect order. The dark wooden walls are lined with shelves full of leather-bound books I doubt he’s ever read. A single painting—abstract, black, and crimson—hangs above a massive obsidian desk. The curtains are drawn, muting the light. The room smells faintly of sandalwood and smoke. Masculine. Intimidating. His.
I move slowly, scanning every inch of the room.
The silence is heavy, too heavy, like the walls are listening.
The first thing I do is circle the desk, looking for anything—papers, folders, files. But there’s nothing on top except that sleek black pen and his closed laptop. I touch the surface of the desk, fingers brushing the cool obsidian. No dust. No fingerprint smudges. Adrian doesn’t just clean—he erases.
I crouch and open the side drawer. It’s locked. Figures. I try the next one. Empty. Completely, unnaturally empty.
I turn toward the shelves. They run floor to ceiling—lined with books, most of them looking pristine and untouched. I tugone free at random. Tolstoy. Another. Sun Tzu. I check behind them for hidden switches or storage, even run my hand along the shelf backs. Nothing.
My heart starts to pound harder with each passing minute.
I go to the sleek black cabinet near the corner. I pull at the handle. Locked again. I press my ear to it. Silence. No humming. No vibration.
I drop to my knees, peering beneath the couch that sits by the wide window. There’s nothing there. No loose rug edges, no safe embedded in the floor.
It’s too clean.
Too cold.
Too perfect.
Like it’s been wiped down with precision. Like he knew someone would come looking.
I walk back to the desk and sit in his chair this time. His place. The leather is still warm from last night, as if it holds his heat, his presence.
I spin once in the chair. Slowly. Scanning the room again.
The art. The arrangement. The symmetry. All meant to impress—or intimidate.
It doesn’t feel like a room meant for work. It feels like a room designed to instill fear.
And it’s working.
Because even surrounded by his silence, his absence feels loud. The whole room screamsYou don’t belong here.
But I ignore the chill crawling up my spine. I plant my elbows on the desk and drop my head into my hands.
Nothing.
No clue.
No answers.
Just me. And the echo of my own breath in Adrian’s perfect cage.
I return my attention to the locked side drawer again, figuring that since it’s locked, it must contain something important. I run my hand along the underside of the desk. No key taped there. I check under the drawers, behind the picture frames on the shelf, and even inside the pen holder. Nothing.
I almost give up.
But then I remember—Professor Marsh.
