Page 3 of Forced Bratva Prisoner

The next few days are going to be a bit tedious, but after that things will start happening quickly.

I stand out on the balcony, sipping at my coffee and reading through my emails.

The one that has my attention is Sasha Balakin’s schedule. She doesn’t go out much at night, but during the day she roams around shopping malls, attends really fancy lunches and a lot of her father’s events and meetings.

She’s obviously a socialite.

Empty-minded, pampered little bitch.

The photos of her that Ivan sent me are hard to look away from.

She’s gorgeous, in a classic sort of way. Her long blonde hair is perfectly waved over her shoulders, not one out of place. Her bright green eyes catch the light quite severely, and her rosy cheeks accent her porcelain skin.

But her beauty just makes me feel annoyed. She has everything. Money, looks, and all of daddy’s spoiling. Holidays, fancy cars and a dream life.

She doesn’t deserve any of it.

She and her father—I know who they are. They use people. Kill people. Do whatever it takes to feed their lavish lifestyles.

I toss the phone onto the table and stare out at the late afternoon sky. The sun will be setting soon, and the clouds have been tinted orange and pink. To anyone else, it would be a beautiful scene, but I’ve been so numb for so long that I can hardly appreciate beauty anymore.

Chapter 2 - Sasha

“Sasha, you look absolutely gorgeous tonight. Your father must be so proud,” the woman, whose name I can’t remember, gushes over me as her statement jewelry pieces glint in the carefully arranged party lighting.

Everything is meticulous.

Because my father is a meticulous man.

The decor, music and food are all planned carefully before each party to ensure perfection.

And of course, me, his daughter. The epitome of perfection. He chooses my outfits, how I am allowed to wear my hair, what I should say (enough, but not too much)—everything about my life is so controlled I am scared to take one step out of line.

“Thank you so much." I smile sweetly at the woman as my father steps to my side.

“Isn’t she a vision?” he asks, looking at me with pride.

“She’s just perfect.”

“Come, sweetheart, I want to introduce you to some of our new clients.”

My father slips his arm around mine and leads me into the crowd.

I spend every single one of these parties feeling fake.

I am praised for my beauty, and how well I dress, and how polite I am, but no one ever asks me anything creative or inspiring. I am just here to be admired on a superficial level.

My father will parade me around from group to group, smiling and chatting, and I just stand here nodding, being beautiful, being silent.

I hate it.

I hate every single moment of it.

I can’t wait for the party to end tonight so that I can go up to my room and hide away again.

I glance down at my dress. It’s not even a reflection of my own style. It’s too pompous and extravagant. I want simple elegance, not this tight, corseted uncomfortable monstrosity of a dress. I could be a Victorian lady wearing this.

I bite my lip to hide my frustration and do my best to maintain my smile.

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