Page 10 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“I don’t know who that is,” he says, his voice flat.

“Bullshit.”

He shrugs, leaning back against the leather seat. “I don’t know what to tell you, Freya. I run a logistics company. We move cargo. Sometimes people get lost in the shuffle. It’s a big city.”

“You expect me to believe that?” I laugh, a harsh, incredulous sound. “You have his ring! He never took it off! You either took it off his corpse or you took it off his living body. Which is it?”

He looks at me, his gaze heavy and assessing. He’s not rattled. He’s not rushing to defend himself. He’s just… watching.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that you’ve been reading too many crime novels. Not everything is a conspiracy.”

“Don’t lie to me,” I say, my voice cracking. “I know he was in trouble. I know he owed money to the Bratva.”

“Bratva.” He rolls the word around like it’s a foreign concept. “You throw that word around like it means something. It’s just a bogeyman for people who can’t handle their own mistakes.”

“You’re the mistake,” I say, lunging for him.

I expect him to stop me. I expect him to grab my wrists or shove me back, but he doesn’t move. Nikita lets me grab the collar of his coat, lets me shake him, my knuckles white with tension.

Our faces are inches apart. I can feel his breath, warm and steady, against my cheek. He’s so calm it makes me want to scream.

“Tell me the truth,” I whisper, my eyes searching his. “Just give me that.”

“I am,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that matches mine. “I don’t know your brother.”

He’s lying. I know it. He knows I know it, but the lie is so clean, so practiced, that it’s terrifying. He’s blocked me out. He’s built a wall I can’t breach.

I let go of him, slumping back against the seat. Defeat washes over me, cold and suffocating. I can’t force him to talk. I can’t make him tell me the truth. I have nothing.

Except this.

I look around the car, at the expensive leather, at the silent driver, at the man who holds my life in his hands. He wants to control the narrative? He wants to fix the disruption I caused?

Fine.

Let him think he won.

I take a deep breath, centering myself. I push the anger down, burying it deep where it can’t be used against me. I wipe the tears from my eyes, refusing to let him see me cry.

“Okay,” I say, my voice steady. “You want me to play the fiancée? You want me to fix your reputation?”

I turn to him, meeting his gaze head-on.

“I’ll do it.”

He raises an eyebrow, surprise flickering across his face. “You will?”

“I will.” I lift my chin. “On my terms. I’m not some puppet you can parade around. If I’m going to be your wife, I’m going to be involved. I want access. I want to know what’s really going on in your company.”

He studies me, his eyes narrowing. He’s looking for the trap. He’s looking for the angle.

“Why would I agree to that?” he asks.

“You need me,” I say, hitting him with the truth. “You said it yourself. I caused a disruption. The only way to fix it is to make the story believable. If I’m miserable, if I’m distant, people will notice. If I’m invested, if I’m supportive? They’ll believe it.”

I lean forward, mimicking his earlier move, getting into his space.

“Let me in, Nikita,” I whisper. “Let me help you. Maybe… maybe I’ll stop digging into the past.”