Page 67 of The Russian's Bought Bride

“You could say that,” I admit quietly.

Vera follows my gaze toward the booth and hums knowingly. “He does that.”

My brows pinch lightly. “What?”

“Looks like he’s carrying the entire world on his back…he’s been like that since he was a kid.”

The observation catches me off guard because it’s painfully accurate, and ever since he has shown me more pieces of his life, I’ve noticed it too.

“He always looks stressed,” I say.

“Because he always is stressed.”

Something about the blunt honesty makes me want to laugh, but I keep it to myself.

For a little while, we watch the band play while conversation hums around us. I sip slowly at my drink and let the music settle some of the tension constantly living beneath my skin these days.

I didn’t realize how badly I needed this.

It isn’t about the luxury or the atmosphere, but simply being outside the house. Seeing other people, and hearing something other than my own grief echoing inside my head.

Eventually, Vera turns slightly toward me with more open curiosity flooding her features. She begins lightly, “So…how exactly did you and Nikolai meet?”

That makes me hesitate immediately as the truth of it comes to the surface all at once.

For half a beat, my instincts tell me to lie and invent some normal story where we bumped into each other at a coffee shop or met through mutual friends instead of what really happened.

But as tempting as that is, it doesn’t seem substantial enough to warrant Nikolai bringing me here, of all places, and introducing me to some of his family. I doubt Vera would even believe it.

She clearly already knows enough to understand this situation isn’t normal, and I can only imagine the nonsense she hears from her family.

So I exhale slowly and say, “It’s complicated.”

Vera grins immediately. “Those are always my favorite stories.”

I don’t think mine qualifies as a favorite, but at her insistence, I find myself telling her anyway.

Leaving out the gritty details of waking up in Nikolai’s house and believing my father was still alive somewhere, I tell her enough to paint a clear picture.

I explain the medical trial, the fake surgery, and the fact that Nikolai was investigating the people behind it and pulled me out before they could kill me, too.

The more I talk, the more Vera’s expression shifts from curiosity to genuine shock, and even so, she listens closely.

“Jesus,” she mutters softly once I finish.

I hum and nod. “Exactly.”

For a moment, she just stares out toward the stage thoughtfully, then she sighs and doesn’t seem entirely surprised.

“That sounds exactly like something that would happen around our family.”

I blink at her, surprised by the simple response. “That’s not concerning at all.”

“It should be,” she agrees. Somehow, that honesty makes me relax more than reassurance would have.

Vera doesn’t try to pretend their world is normal, and she doesn’t sugarcoat it or act offended that I find it overwhelming. She just accepts it for what it is, like she gets it more than most people would.

A beat later, her expression softens again. “I’m sorry about your dad, by the way. I imagine he would’ve been beyond grateful to hear how willing you were to step up, even if it wasn’t real.”