Page 29 of Captured By the Bratva

16

CATHY

The dressing room is silent, the kind of silence that sinks into your bones and leaves you feeling hollow. It feels like a room preparing for a funeral, not a wedding.

Heavy velvet drapes hang from ceiling-high windows, casting shadows that stretch across dark wood floors polished to an unnatural gleam.

Gold accents glint from the edges of the furniture, intricate and intimidating, the kind of luxury that feels like it was built to display power, not comfort.

I’m perched on the edge of a plush armchair, but even the softness feels oppressive, like it’s sinking me further into the room’s silence. The thick carpets swallow any sound, trapping me in a cocoon of stillness.

I wrap my arms around myself, drawing in a breath that tastes faintly of perfume and polish, the fragrance cloying and ancient, as if it’s seeped into the very walls over decades.

My gaze drifts over the ornate decor, the heavy gold-framed mirrors, the towering wardrobe, all pristine and intimidating. It’s strange to think that all of this belongs to him, that I’m one more possession to add to so many.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I feel like a doll dressed up and placed in a gilded cage, an outsider in a world that aims to swallow me whole. This mansion, this wealth, the silent reminders of power—it all presses down on me as if the house itself would crush me if I ever lower my guard.

Behind me, a woman is working on my hair. She’s small and efficient, her hands laden with brushes and bottles, moving with a purposeful grace that tells me this is her element. She doesn’t smile or speak.

She twists my hair, her hands deft and skilled, pinning delicate gold accents into each braid, transforming me into someone I hardly recognize. The weight of each pin feels like another piece of armor, another layer I’m forced to wear as I step further into Ivan’s world.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. My hair has become a crown of braids, woven and intricate, glinting with subtle golden highlights that only seem to intensify the strangeness of my reflection.

When she moves on to my makeup, my own face becomes a stranger’s. Her touch is light but methodical, painting my cheeks and lips, defining my eyes until they look darker, more haunted. I look like someone out of a dream—or a nightmare.

My gown waits for me, draped over the back of a chair. It’s an antique white with lace sleeves that cling to my arms, and a cinched waist that feels like a vice. I pull it on slowly, the fabric heavy and exquisite, fitting me like a second skin, each layer wrapping around me, holding me firmly in place.

I stand in front of the mirror, barely able to breathe, each breath reminding me of the choice that isn’t mine anymore. This isn’t a wedding gown; it’s chains, a symbol of everything I’m being drawn into. The mansion around me feels almost alive, watching, the dark opulence folding over me, pulling me further into its shadows.

The heavy door opens, and Nik beckons. “It is time,” he says. His face is impassive, his gaze forward, giving me no hint of comfort or camaraderie. So different to how he looked in the photo with Elena. Did this life swallow him like it plans to swallow me?

The corridor stretches ahead, dimly lit by flickering sconces that cast jagged shadows along the walls, each flame guttering as if struggling against the weight of the darkness. My dress whispers along the floor as I move, a soft sound swallowed by the vast silence that presses in from all sides.

The walls rise high on either side, dark wood and stone, the textures blending into a seamless, oppressive weight that makes me feel as if I’m descending into something ancient and consuming. We step into a grand, arched hall filled with stony faced guests, and the sight makes me stop for a fraction of a second.

The hall is draped in layers of black and crimson, thick fabrics that hang from the ceiling and pool onto the floor like rivers of blood and shadow.

Golden chandeliers hang low, casting an eerie, sepia glow over everything, catching on the glinting buttons of suits and the sharp gleam of watchful eyes. Stone columns line the sides, looming and unyielding, giving the hall the feel of a cathedral—a place for worship, yet somehow profane in its somber grandeur.

Rows of men in dark suits turn as I enter, their expressions hard, assessing, their eyes as sharp as the tailored lines of their clothing.

The weight of their stares makes me feel small, exposed, as though I’m not Cathy, a woman with a past and a future, but something Ivan owns, an acquisition he’s parading before them.

My gaze drifts up the aisle, and there he stands, framed by the somber red and black. Ivan, his presence like a force thatdraws all the shadows toward him, his gaze a dark, unbreakable line that fixes on me, holds me captive even across the distance.

His eyes are unreadable, the planes of his face set in perfect control, yet I feel the power radiating off him like heat, as if he’s silently commanding the room—and me—with nothing but his presence.

I take slow, careful steps forward, my feet moving in time with a heartbeat I can barely hear over the silence. Each step feels like surrender, like I’m crossing some invisible line with every inch I close between us.

The ceremony feels like a descent, as though I’m moving deeper into a fate I never chose, one that waits for me in Ivan’s eyes.

As I reach him, I glimpse the priest, dressed in heavy robes of dark red, his face shadowed by a hood. He begins to speak in Russian, his voice low and ancient, the words echoing through the hall like a chant.

They’re sounds more than words, powerful syllables that seem to cling to the air, thickening it, making it harder to breathe. I don’t understand what he’s saying, but I don’t need to; the tone alone tells me that these are vows, a binding of souls, as weighty and immovable as the stone walls that surround us.

Ivan listens, his expression impenetrable, his posture as unyielding as the columns behind him. He’s fully immersed, his focus on the ritual intense, reverent even, as though he’s part of something ancient and sacred.

I feel myself shrinking under the weight of it, aware that I am standing on the edge of a world far older and darker than I could have imagined.

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