Page 42 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

This changes things.

Knowing her history changes the game. It explains the determination, the recklessness, the willingness to throw herself into the fire. She has nothing left to lose.

Ayaan isn’t just a missing person to her. He’s the ghost that haunts every waking moment. He’s the reason she became who she is.

Closing my eyes, I let the silence of the room wash over me.

Chapter Thirteen - Freya

The morning light filters through the heavy drapes of the penthouse, gray and indifferent. I wake up alone, the space beside me already cool. The sheets still smell faintly of him.

I don’t let myself linger on the intimacy of the night before. The vulnerability I showed, the confession about my parents, the way he held me while I cried… it feels like a fever dream now. A lapse in judgment that I can’t afford to repeat.

I’m not here to be comforted. I’m here to find out what happened to Ayaan.

Throwing the covers off, I slide out of bed. My legs feel shaky, a lingering effect of the nightmare and the emotional aftermath. I force them steady. I have work to do.

Nikita is already gone. I heard the front door close an hour ago, the latch clicking shut with finality. He didn’t wake me to say goodbye. He didn’t leave a note. Just the silent absence that tells me he’s back in his element—handling business, giving orders, being the Bratva lieutenant.

Good. His absence is my opportunity.

I grab my phone and slip out of the bedroom, padding barefoot down the hallway. The penthouse is quiet, the staff discreetly invisible. Anna is likely in the kitchen, and the security detail is stationed at the perimeter, leaving the inner sanctum largely unmonitored.

Except for the cameras.

I know they’re there. I felt Nikita’s eyes on me yesterday when I tested the handle of the locked office. He’s watching, or someone is.

Except he gave me access.

I intend to find out why.

The door to the secondary office is closed but not locked. I push it open, stepping inside quickly. The room is spacious, lined with filing cabinets and a large mahogany desk that smells of leather and old paper.

I don’t touch anything at first. I just look.

Scanning the room, I note the order. Everything is labeled, categorized, filed with the precision of a man who treats chaos like a personal insult. This isn’t just organization; it’s a defense mechanism.

I pull out my phone, opening the camera app. I won’t waste time trying to read everything. I’ll document it.

Moving to the first cabinet, I start flipping through files. It’s all mundane. Administrative noise.

I snap photos of the headers, the dates, the signatures. I don’t know what will be important yet, so I capture it all. I move efficiently, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Halfway through the second cabinet, my fingers brush against a file that feels different. Thicker and older.

I pull it out. The label is faded, the typewriter font slightly misaligned. “Project Archangel - Debt Recovery.”

My breath hitches.

The date on the tab is two years ago.

Two years ago. The summer Ayaan disappeared.

My hands tremble as I flip the cover open. The papers inside are yellowed at the edges, covered in dense, handwritten notes and stamped approvals.

I don’t read the whole thing, but I scan for anything important. I see references to The Shark, a loan shark Ayaan mentioned once in passing. I see transfer requests for large sums of cash—fifty thousand, then another twenty.

And then, on the third page, I see it.