Page 32 of Married to the Bratva

“Deep breaths,” Serena whispers as she opens the door. “You’ve got this.”

I’m not so sure, but I nod anyway, squaring my shoulders as I step inside.

The ballroom is breathtaking and intimidating, all at once. Chandeliers glitter overhead, casting soft, golden light over the room.

Fresh white roses line the aisle, their delicate fragrance weaving through the air. Rows of impeccably dressed guests sit in quiet expectation. I’ve no idea how he got all this organized so quickly.

It’s a scene straight out of a fairy tale, except for the armed guards stationed discreetly along the walls and the icy tension twisting my stomach.

My heels click against the marble floor as I step into the room, and every head turns toward me.

My pulse races as I force myself to move forward, one foot in front of the other. The gown feels heavier with every step, the veil brushing against my bare shoulders.

And then I see him.

Maxim stands at the end of the aisle, his sharp suit tailored to perfection, his hands clasped in front of him.

His expression is unreadable, his dark eyes locked on me like a hawk watching its prey. The sight of him sends a jolt through me—part fear, part something I refuse to name.

I keep walking, my gaze flicking to the man standing beside him. Nikolai. His expression is more openly skeptical, like he’s waiting for me to trip or burst into flames.

Victor is off to one side, smoking a cigar. The old boss, the one who thinks I’m working with Federico. To his left is a man in his sixties, Andrei. He’s the one I’ve got to impress. He’s the one who needs to think this marriage is real.

I grit my teeth and lift my chin, doing my best to appear confident.

When I finally reach Maxim, the room goes silent. The officiant clears his throat and begins the ceremony, but his words blur into background noise.

All I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears and the steady, suffocating presence of the man beside me.

The officiant nods toward Maxim. “Do you, Maxim Abramov, take Sophie Hale to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” Maxim says, his voice steady and cold, like he’s signing a business contract instead of pledging himself to another person.

I swallow hard as the officiant turns to me. “And do you, Sophie Hale, take Maxim Abramov to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

My heart pounds in my chest as I stare at Maxim. His gaze is unrelenting, daring me to back out, to refuse, to walk away.

“I do.”

The officiant smiles, closing the book in his hands. “Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

My breath catches as Maxim steps closer, his hand brushing against my waist. His other hand lifts the veil, and for a brief moment, our eyes meet. There’s something there, something I can’t quite place. And then his lips touch mine.

The kiss is brief, calculated, and utterly devoid of tenderness. It’s a performance, just like the rest of this farce. But even so, the feel of his lips against mine sends a shiver down my spine. When he pulls away, his expression is as unreadable as ever, but his grip on my waist lingers for a moment longer than it should.

As we turn to face the crowd, polite applause fills the room. I force a smile, my cheeks aching with the effort. Maxim’s hand remains on my waist as we walk back down the aisle together, his touch a reminder of the cage I’ve willingly stepped into.

“You did well,” he murmurs under his breath, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

“Don’t patronize me,” I snap.

His lips twitch into a faint smirk. “You stand a better chance of surviving this if you stop fighting me. Now smile, Andrei is looking.”

24

SOPHIE

The reception is more a business meeting than a celebration.

---