Page 44 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim
We finally arrive at a massive gate, and the car slows to a stop as armed guards step forward, surrounding us. Sergei rolls down the window, exchanging a few quiet words with them. The moment they see Mike, their posture shifts.
Respect. Recognition.
The gate slides open.
We drive through.
Beyond it sits an enormous estate, sprawling and immaculate. This place doesn’t just suggest wealth—it announces it. The house itself glows under carefully placed lights, marble and glass reflecting the night like something pulled straight out of a billionaire’s fantasy.
Music drifts faintly through the air.
There’s a gathering outside—dozens of people moving across the illuminated lawn, waiters weaving through the crowd with trays of champagne. Expensive suits. Glittering dresses. Conversations layered with quiet power.
This isn’t just a party.
It’s a meeting of people who control things.
Sergei parks the car smoothly near the entrance.
Mike turns slightly toward me before opening his door.
“You don’t have to speak with anyone,” he says calmly. “Just stay by my side.”
I don’t respond.
I simply open the door and step out of the car.
For the next hour, Mike introduces me to over a dozen people, half of whose names I forget the moment the conversation ends. I do what’s expected of me—I smile, shake hands, give polite compliments, and accept them in return.
They like me.
I can tell.
But it’s all surface-level, a perfectly practiced social performance. Inside, I feel nothing.
All I want is to go home.
When I see Mike turning toward yet another small group across the lawn, I pause and lightly touch his arm.
“My legs hurt,” I tell him. “I’d like to go sit at the bar for a few minutes.”
He studies me immediately. “Should I come with you?”
I shake my head. “No. Go on. I’ll be fine.”
He hesitates for a moment, clearly debating it, but eventually he nods and releases me.
I walk away before he can change his mind.
Relief washes over me the moment I reach the bar.
I slide onto one of the stools, exhaling quietly as the bartender approaches.
“What can I get for you?”
“Could I please have sparkling water with just a splash of cranberry juice?” I say. “If I can have that with a lime wedge, that would be perfect. Thanks.”
“One for me too.”
