Page 4 of Forced Bratva Prisoner

Outwardly, people look at me and think I am a sparkling beacon of happiness.

Inside I am miserable.

The hours roll on, and I sip slowly at my champagne, holding the crystal glass more for show than anything else. The closer we get to the end of the night, the stronger the anticipation gets. Soon I can escape. Soon I can curl up in my bed wearing sweatpants and a comfy t-shirt and read a book.

My cheeks are hurting from this stupid smile plastered on my face, and I don’t even think an idiot would mistake it for a real smile at this point.

I feel like a doll that has been molded to hold the perfect pose as I follow my father around.

I wait obediently for the last guest to leave. It’s always the drunk ones that linger too long, thinking they are welcome. Finally, the butler closes the front door after ushering him out, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Goodnight, Papa,” I say politely as my father downs the last of his vodka and places the empty glass on the table.

“Not so fast, Sasha,” he says coldly.

I pause, my stomach tightening. It’s past midnight and I’m exhausted. I’ve been counting the hours and minutes to the moment I can get away, and now he is making me wait longer.

“Did you need something, Papa?”

“Yes. Come with me.” There is rarely any emotion in his voice, which makes it very hard to read him sometimes. His face has tells that I have become pretty good at reading over the years—I had to become hyper-aware of his expressions to avoid his wrath and turbulent moods—but tonight I can’t read anything. The knot in my stomach tightens and flips.

My father is a cold man. He rarely shows genuine joy or pleasure in anything, apart from when he is being fake and friendly in order to manipulate people, or fulfilling his darker hobbies.

I shake my head, pushing those thoughts away.

I follow behind him as he walks through the house, down the stairs to the lower level, and finally arrives at the basement door.

I hate the basement door.

Nothing good ever happens in that basement.

I feel like I want to puke when he pulls the keys out of his pocket and starts opening the heavy iron lock.

“Papa, I’m quite tired, do you mind if I go to bed?”

He spins around to glare at me, and I wince, shutting my eyes tightly when he lifts his hand up.

“You will go to bed when I say you can go to bed,” he snarls.

Then he grabs my arm, pushes the basement door open and shoves me toward the dark staircase. I hear him lock the door behind us.

Nausea pulses in my body as I wonder what he has in mind this time.

I take a step down the stairway and trip over the edge of the long dress. I quickly grab a handful of it and lift the front so that I can see where I'm placing my feet. Far below the stairs, there is a faint orange light glowing, and it’s giving me just enough vision to stop me from falling flat on my face trying to navigate these steps.

“Hurry up,” his dark voice comes from behind me.

I walk a little faster, relieved when I reach the bottom.

My father pushes me to the side as he enters the basement.

I squint into the room, trying to see through the faint light.

He walks over to a wall and flicks a switch, flooding the room with bright, cold, white light.

My stomach lurches.

In the center of the room is a man.

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