Page 137 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim
But our arguments are never violent.
They’re softer now. Quieter.
More about understanding than winning.
Our marriage is no longer forged in crisis.
It’s something far more powerful than that.
Something we choose.
Every single day.
I finish my speech, and the room erupts into applause.
The sound is overwhelming at first—sharp, loud, real.
For a moment, I just stand there.
Because two years ago, my name was attached to something very different.
A scandal.
A weapon.
A nightmare I barely escaped.
Now, my name is spoken in rooms like this again.
With respect.
Not fear.
Not suspicion.
Respect.
I step away from the podium as the applause continues, my heart beating fast but steady.
This is my life now.
The summit slowly dissolves into the evening reception. Conversations bloom in clusters across the hall, glasses clink softly, and a small orchestra begins playing near the dance floor as the lights dim into something warmer.
I’m answering a question from a journalist when a familiar hand slips gently into mine.
I turn.
Mike.
“Can I have this dance?” he asks, his voice low and teasing.
I roll my eyes dramatically. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
He shakes his head, amused. “I wanted to let you have this moment.”
He leads me toward the dance floor as the music swells around us.
“This was your night,” he continues. “You deserved to stand in the spotlight alone.”
