Page 31 of Married to the Bratva

“You wouldn’t shoot me.”

“Why not?”

“If you did, who’d be left to tell you your zipper is still undone.”

23

SOPHIE

The shimmering, floor-length designer gown clings to me in ways I didn’t know fabric could.

It’s heavy, uncomfortable, and expensive enough to make me break out in hives just thinking about the cost.

The corset digs into my ribs, and the heels they gave me might as well be medieval torture devices.

“Can’t I just wear flats?” I mutter, twisting awkwardly to try and loosen the corset without ripping the dress.

One of my attendants—a tall, no-nonsense woman who looks like she’s never smiled in her life—raises an eyebrow. “Mr. Abramov was very specific about the look he desired for today.”

“Of course he was,” I mutter under my breath. “He probably has a checklist somewhere titled ‘How to Control Sophie while arranging a wedding within forty-eight hours.’”

The woman doesn’t reply, which is probably for the best. Instead, she reaches out to adjust a strand of my hair that’s slipped out of the elaborate updo they wrestled it into earlier. I swat her hand away instinctively, then immediately regret it when she stares at me like I’ve just insulted her entire family.

“Sorry,” I mumble, taking a deep breath. “I’m just not used to all this.”

“That much is obvious,” she says, stepping back with a faint sniff.

The room is too big, too cold, too everything. It’s filled with racks of designer clothes, shelves of shoes that probably cost more than my old car, and enough jewelry to make a museum jealous. Everything about this space screams money and power, and it makes my skin itch.

I glance at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes until the wedding. Ten minutes until I tie myself to Maxim Abramov.

My stomach twists at the thought, a mix of dread and something I don’t want to name. It’s the same feeling I get whenever he touches me.

The door swings open, and Serena—one of the younger attendants—steps inside, carrying a delicate lace veil. She’s the only one who’s been remotely friendly, which makes her the closest thing I have to an ally in this circus.

“You look beautiful,” she says with a genuine smile, handing me the veil. “Like a queen.”

I snort. “More like a sacrificial lamb.”

Her smile falters, and I immediately feel bad. “Do you not like the dress?”

“Sorry,” I say, sighing. “It’s just… this isn’t me. None of this is me.”

Serena hesitates, then lowers her voice. “It’s time to go.”

I nod, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t ease.

As I follow her out of the room, the heels immediately betray me. One wobbly step turns into a full stumble, and I grab the doorframe for support just as a passing guard stifles a laugh.

“Don’t start,” I snap, glaring at him as I straighten myself.

“You’re doing great,” he says with a smirk, tipping an imaginary hat before continuing down the hall. “Pure class.”

Serena giggles softly behind me, and I can’t help but laugh too, despite the humiliation. “This is going to be a disaster,” I mutter, shaking my head.

“Maybe,” she says, her tone light. “But at least you’ll look good doing it.”

The sound of voices echoes down the hall, growing louder as we approach the grand ballroom. My heart pounds, and I clutch the edge of the veil.

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