Page 34 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

“I can’t do this,” I manage between gasps. “I don’t want this.”

Vera squeezes my hands gently, her voice steady. “I know, dear. I know.”

Her understanding feels like a lifeline, and I cling to it, my tears slowly subsiding. She retrieves a handkerchief from her pocket and presses it into my hands, her movements careful and deliberate.

I wipe at my face, my hands trembling. “Why is this happening to me?”

Vera hesitates, her expression tinged with sadness. “Mr. Sharov is… not a man who changes his mind easily. He does what he believes is necessary.”

“It’s not necessary,” I say bitterly, clutching the handkerchief in my lap. “It’s cruel.”

Vera doesn’t argue, but her silence speaks volumes.

She stands, smoothing her skirt before turning to the vanity and retrieving a glass of water. She hands it to me, her eyes kind. “Drink, child. You need your strength.”

I take the glass reluctantly, sipping the cool water as Vera moves to adjust the hem of the dress where it pools around my feet. Her presence is calming, a stark contrast to the chaos swirling in my mind.

“You’re stronger than you think,” she says softly, her voice laced with quiet conviction. “You’ll get through this.”

I want to believe her, but the weight of the dress, the weight of everything, feels like too much to bear.

She squeezes my hand one last time before stepping back, her gaze warm but steady. “I’ll be back to help you when it’s time,” she says. “For now, rest.”

Rest. The word feels like an impossibility, but I nod anyway, watching as Vera leaves the room.

Alone again, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, the tears drying on my cheeks.

The girl in the dress is trapped. No one is coming to save her.

***

I turn away from the mirror, unable to meet the eyes of the woman staring back at me. Sinking onto the chaise lounge near the window, I let out a slow breath, my fingers curling into the fabric of the skirt. The soft material is cool beneath my touch, a stark contrast to the heat building in my chest.

How did it come to this? A few months ago, I was living my life, working a job I hated but surviving. Now I’m here, in this gilded room, about to marry a man I barely know and who sees me as nothing more than an obligation.

The thought makes my throat tighten, and I press my palms against my thighs, trying to steady my breathing.

A knock at the door pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. Before I can answer, Vera steps inside, her expression calm and composed.

“The makeup artist is here,” she says gently, her voice soothing in the stillness of the room.

I glance up at her, my stomach twisting. “Do I have to?”

Vera’s gaze softens, and she steps closer, folding her hands in front of her. “You’d better do as Mr. Sharov says,” she replies, her tone kind but firm. “It’s easier that way.”

I laugh bitterly, shaking my head. “Easier for who? Him?”

“For you,” Vera says softly, meeting my eyes. “Fighting him will only make things harder.”

Her words settle heavily on my shoulders, but I nod, rising reluctantly from the chaise lounge. The dress drags against the floor as I follow her to the adjoining room, where the makeup artist waits.

The artist greets me with a professional smile, gesturing for me to sit in the chair in front of a wide vanity. The surface is cluttered with brushes, powders, and palettes, each neatly arranged as if for a performance.

I lower myself into the chair, stiff and unyielding, as the artist begins to work. She doesn’t ask me what I want or how I’d like to look. Instead, she moves with quick, confident strokes, as though she already knows.

“This will suit you perfectly,” she says, her tone upbeat as she blends dark, smoky shadows onto my eyelids.

“Will it?” I ask, glancing at her through the mirror.

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