Page 72 of Reclaimed By My Ex’s Bratva Brother

"Mr. Petrov, I've completed the wedding planning proposal you requested. The detailed plan and budget are attached. Please review. Let me know if anything needs adjusting."

Wedding planning proposal. My temple throbbed.

I didn't bother reading the whole thing—just skimmed the table of contents and a few key pages. Forty-plus pages. Venue, guest list, florals, lighting, backup plans. Every timeline broken down clean. She'd even mapped out how to relocate guests if the weather turned.

Then I hit the ceremony section. Two names jumped out. Groom: Varlam Petrov. Bride: Brinny Vasilieva.

I stared at those lines. The fire in my chest shot straight to my throat.

Ridiculous. When did I agree to get married? When did I ask Briony to plan my goddamn wedding? I grabbed my phone and messaged her.

"I never assigned you this task."

Her reply came fast.

"The task email was sent from your work account three days ago. I was copied, along with the project department."

My back lifted off the chair. The anger didn't fade—just changed direction.

Three days ago, I'd been in my office with Gleb discussing a port deal. Brinny got impatient waiting around. She walked behind my desk and said she needed to check something on the computer.

I didn't stop her. A decade ago, my study, my files, my computer—none of it was ever off-limits to her. Still wasn't. She must've sent the email then.

I exhaled hard and fired off another message.

"Come to my office. Now. Bring that goddamn proposal."

After I set the phone down, I remembered how Brinny had swept out of here earlier, chin high.

I'd always known Brinny was willful. She had the right to be. She was Vigo's only daughter, spoiled rotten by the entire Vasiliev family.

As a kid, she'd made Vigo fly in a replacement horse from Europe within a week because she didn't like the color of the first one. As an adult, she left when she felt like it—walked away from our relationship, from family expectations, from everything I'd built for us.

Now she was back. She said she loved me, said she wanted to marry me, and then—before I'd even agreed—went ahead and started planning the wedding. Like my consent was just paperwork she'd file later. Like I was something she could toss aside and pick back up whenever she pleased.

The fire climbed higher.

The girl who'd held me together through my worst years and the woman who'd sat at my desk three days ago sending emails—they overlapped in my memory, then split apart completely. I suddenly didn't know if she'd changed, or if I'd just spent all these years remembering only what I wanted to remember.

A knock at the door interrupted me.

"Come in." I forced the anger down.

The door opened. Briony walked in holding a file. She wore a simple light blouse and black skirt, blonde hair pulled back tight, a few loose strands framing her face. She looked exhausted—shadows under her eyes, lips pale.

But her spine was straight. Like a spring bent to its limit, refusing to snap.

"Mr. Petrov. The proposal you asked for." She stopped at my desk and held out the file.

I didn't take it. Her flat tone set me on edge. I glanced at the papers. The corners were worn soft. She'd probably pulled multiple all-nighters on this absurd project. I should've explained first. Should've told her I hadn't sent the email, hadn't ordered the transfer.

But the anger Brinny had sparked was still burning in my chest, and Briony's distant tone just poured gasoline on it.

"Who authorized you to leave your assistant position?" When I spoke, my voice was already ice-cold. No going back.

"What?" She blinked, eyes widening.

I knew I was taking this out on her. Knew every word should be aimed at someone else. But the fire had burned through reason. I couldn't stop.