Page 37 of Possessive Bratva’s Kidnapped Virgin

Isla

The flowers arrived on a Tuesday.

They were beautiful, white garden roses arranged in a low, expensive vase, with the kind of arrangement that took skill to make look effortless. I stood in the lobby and looked at them for a brief moment before I asked Marcus, the day security lead with the quiet, watchful presence, who had sent them.

He didn’t know.

The card slot on the vase was empty.

Regardless of how many things I did afterward, I thought about the flowers constantly.

*****

Life as Alexei Golovin’s wife had a form I hadn’t anticipated.

I had imagined, in the hours before the wedding when I’d been running worst-case scenarios through my head, something more obviously constraining despite the terms he’s accepted. Guards at the door. Permission required for movement. Captivity dressed up in expensive furnishings. I had prepared myself for that and had prepared, alongside it, my response to it—the lines I would not allow to move and the version of this arrangement that I could survive with my sense of self intact.

What I had not prepared for was the strange, disorienting experience of being treated like I belonged.

The whole staff on the penthouse floor deferred to me with respect instead of the performative style I’d expected. I knew one explanation of it would be the fact that their fear and respect for their boss was absolute. But I also knew that if that were the case, they would have treated me differently whenever Alexei wasn’t around. But they didn’t.

Marcus briefed me each morning on the day’s security arrangement, assuming my interest rather than showing a fake tolerance of it. Mira had transitioned from the role of caretaker to something closer to coordinator, appearing when needed and disappearing when not.

The sisters were the most surprising.

Anya appeared on Wednesday with coffee. Her energy was that of someone who has decided that a social call is happening regardless of whether it’s been scheduled. She sat in the main living area and talked about three entirely different subjects in the span of forty minutes and asked me questions about event planning with genuine curiosity.

She told me, with complete sincerity, that Alexei had seemed “less like a closed door” in the last week, which she considered a significant improvement. I wasn’t sure what to do with this information, so I gave her more coffee, and she seemed satisfied. Even silence wasn’t negatively charged with her.

Sofia came the next day, which felt more like a visit with a quieter agenda, conducted over tea in the kitchen. Even though I didn’t ask, she told me about her own first months with Viktor,

“He was worse than Alexei,” she said, which was genuinely hard to imagine. “At least Alexei knows he’s controlled. Viktor thought he was being reasonable.”

I laughed at that.

“You’re settling,” she said. Not approvingly, not disapprovingly—observationally. The way someone notes the weather.

“I’m adapting,” I said.

“That’s how it starts.” She set down her cup. “For what it’s worth—he’s different. I don’t mean easier. But different.” She looked at me. “I thought you should know.”

I thought about that for a long time after she left.

*****

Evenings with Alexei had developed their own sequence.

We hadn’t slept at the same time since the wedding night. He was out at the casino until after midnight, and he spent most of the day in his office while I spent mine in the kitchen or the study. I also now had a laptop that he’d given me with no explanation other than, “It’s yours to use now.”

He’d sit. He’d work, usually—always had something, documents or a phone call or a tablet with screens I didn’t examine because his professional life was not my business unless he made it mine. We occupied the same room with ease, like people who have run out of reasons to disturb each other and are simply, tentatively, being.

He made observations rather than conversation. Something he’d read, something Dmitri had said that had been either useful or idiotic (the line, with Dmitri, was often unclear), once a question about event logistics that surprised me so completely I looked up from my laptop to check whether he was actually asking. But he really was. He had a client relationship that involved an annual private dinner and wanted to know what made a venue feel intimate rather than small.

We spent forty-five minutes on that. Him asking precise questions. Me answering with unfeigned enthusiasm. By the end of it, he had what he needed, and I had, without quite planning it, talked more freely than I had about anything since I’d been abducted.

*****

The black car was there on Friday.