Page 70 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
“Good morning,” I say.
“Morning.” No inflection. She takes her coffee and disappears back down the hallway.
I tell myself she needs time. That last night’s confrontation was intense and she’s processing, adjusting, working through the anger I’d seen blazing in her eyes when we got home.
By day three, I’m not so sure.
Janice moves through the penthouse like a ghost. Present but untouchable. She responds when spoken to directly, maintains perfect politeness, never gives me reason to call her out on anything specific.
She never, ever seeks me out.
The mornings are worst. She wakes before me now—I know because I hear the guest suite door open, hear water running in that bathroom instead of ours. By the time I’m up, she’s already dressed and occupied with something that doesn’t require my presence.
Once, I find her in my study, going through books on Russian history with the kind of focus that suggests genuine interest rather than performance.
“Learning the language?” I ask from the doorway.
She startles slightly, then smooths her expression. “Trying to understand the culture. Seems relevant.”
“I could teach you. If you’re interested.”
“That’s kind, but I prefer to learn independently.” She closes the book, stands. “Excuse me. I should start getting ready for dinner.”
It’s two in the afternoon.
She leaves before I can point that out, slipping past me in the doorway with careful distance maintained between our bodies.
I watch her go, replaying the interaction. Polite. Appropriate. Completely devoid of the fire that usually sparks between us.
Felix notices during our afternoon meeting.
“You’re distracted,” he observes.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve read the same paragraph of that contract three times. You’re not fine.” He leans back in his chair. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re a shitty liar.”
“She’s pulling away.” The admission comes out more raw than intended. “Janice. She’s… distant.”
“Distant how?”
“Every way that matters. She doesn’t argue anymore. Doesn’t challenge.” I stop, unwilling to voice the rest.
Doesn’t look at me like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
Felix is quiet for a moment. “You humiliated her in front of the entire Bratva. What did you expect?”
“Anger. Fury. Fighting. Not this withdrawal.”
“Maybe that’s her way of fighting. Strategic retreat instead of direct confrontation.”
“Or she’s planning something.”
“Like what?”
