Page 85 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

Because the answer isn’t as obvious as it should be.

I stare out across the property.

The sun is beginning to set beyond the trees, painting long shadows across the grounds.

Somewhere inside this house is a woman who still believes our marriage happened for one reason.

And someday she’s going to discover it happened for another.

When that day comes, she’ll have every right to hate me.

The worst part is that she won’t be wrong.

I close my eyes briefly.

Ben is right.

Eventually, I’ll have to tell her the truth.

The problem is that every day I wait, the lie gets bigger. And every day I spend around Sofia, it becomes harder to convince myself that I married her for the code.

Chapter 11 – Sofia

Over the past month, things actually slow down. The huge estate doesn’t feel like a total prison anymore, and I wrap myself in a quiet little routine. I still know I can’t just pack up and leave, but that intense, burning anger I have at the start definitely softens into something else. It’s a weird, complicated feeling I can’t really explain.

Most days, I just hang out by myself in my bedroom. I read my books, rearrange them on the shelves, and watch how the estate runs. Bit by bit, I manage to make this place feel a little bit normal.

It isn’t freedom. I know that.

There are still guards downstairs. Still locked doors. Still the uncomfortable knowledge that my life belongs to somebody else more than it belongs to me.

But the constant urge to fight every part of this situation has faded into something quieter. Something more confusing. Because despite everything, I’ve begun to know this place.

It no longer feels like enemy territory.

It feels familiar.

I know which windows catch the morning sunlight first. I know where the best reading spots are. I know which floorboard near the library creaks when stepped on. I know that Joy, the head chef, hums while she cooks and that Dmitri, one of the security guards, secretly feeds scraps of meat to the neighborhood stray cat whenever he thinks nobody is watching.

And somehow, those small things have made this place feel less temporary.

Less cold.

I don’t know what that says about me.

Probably nothing good.

I sit cross-legged on the floor of the library, sorting through a stack of books I recently finished. I’ve developed a habit of reorganizing them every few days. Different categories. Different shelves.

It gives my hands something to do.

My father used to do the same thing.

The thought appears unexpectedly.

As it always does.

Some days it hurts. Some days it doesn’t. Today it’s somewhere in between.