Page 68 of Reclaimed By My Ex’s Bratva Brother

Winnie frowned.

"You sure?"

"At least I'll finish this wedding, get paid, then forget him completely." My voice still trembled.

But it sounded like a decision.

Winnie studied me, then sighed.

"Fine. Look at it this way—at least you slept with Mr. Petrov, so that's not—"

Nausea slammed into my throat. I covered my mouth.

Winnie stopped mid-sentence.

"Sorry." I shoved my chair back. "I need the restroom."

I bolted from the booth, nearly colliding with the server bringing our food.

The restaurant's mix of grilled meat, butter, and coffee turned suffocating. My stomach twisted, acid surging up in waves.

I pushed into the bathroom and doubled over the toilet, dry heaving.

It had to be stress. That damn email.

Damn Varlam. He made me sick.

Chapter Eighteen

Varlam

"Who gave her permission to leave?"

Brinny and I had just gotten back to the company when I spotted the desk—conspicuously empty. I'd been gone a few days, and Briony had already cleared out every trace of herself.

My chest locked up tight. She'd bolted from my bed once. Now she'd bolted from my office. Both times without a word, as if turning her back fast enough meant she didn't owe me an explanation.

"Varlam, don't go looking for her." I was about to track her down when Brinny stepped up and looped her arm through mine. "I sent her back to her old department. She said she hated being an assistant, so I made the call."

She said it lightly, like she'd just arranged a car for someone.

My jaw tightened.

The company, the bratva, everyone around me—any personnel move went through me first. Brinny knew I hated losing control, yet she'd gone over my head and yanked Briony out of my office anyway.

"You reassigned my assistant?"

"She's not yours." Brinny smiled, then seemed to catch herself. "I mean, she doesn't have to work only for you. She kept complaining about your schedule, your calls, all the last-minute crap you threw at her. She liked her old job better. If she's miserable, why not let her go back?"

Briony complained?

She used to set my coffee on the left when I'd been in back-to-back meetings—she'd noticed my right hand got clumsy when I was tired. She hated when I changed plans on the fly and never let me off easy about it, but she'd never let a single meeting fall apart. And she'd never told me she wanted out.

"When did she tell you this?"

"We've talked a few times."

"A few times?"