Page 36 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

“Not exactly,” she says, her voice calm but resolute. “You can let it drive you, but only if you steer it in the right direction.”

I laugh bitterly, turning to face her fully. “And where exactly is the ‘right direction’ in all of this? I’m being forced into a marriage I never wanted. What direction could possibly lead to anything better?”

Vera meets my gaze, unflinching. “Forward,” she says simply. “Through this. You think Mr. Sharov controls everything, but the truth is, there are ways to bend even the most unyielding people.”

Her words catch me off guard, my anger faltering just enough for curiosity to slip in. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that people like him respect strength,” she says, her expression softening. “They don’t understand it at first when it comes in a form they don’t expect, but they learn to recognize it. If you hold on to what makes you who you are—your dignity, your fire—he’ll see it.”

I cross my arms, skeptical. “You think he’ll care? That he’ll change?”

“People don’t change easily,” Vera concedes. “They adapt when they’re faced with something they don’t want to lose.”

Her words linger, heavy with implications I don’t fully understand.

I sigh, glancing back at the mirror. The woman staring back at me still looks like a stranger, but there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes now—a spark, faint but undeniable.

“What if I can’t?” I ask softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “What if I lose myself before I can figure it out?”

“You won’t,” Vera says firmly, stepping closer to rest a hand on my arm. “You’re stronger than you think, Hannah. I’ll remind you, every step of the way, if I have to.”

Her sincerity hits me harder than I expect, and for the first time all day, I feel a sliver of hope breaking through the weight of everything.

“Thank you,” I murmur, my voice unsteady.

Vera nods, her grip on my arm reassuring. “Now,” she says with a faint smile, “let’s make sure you’re ready. You’ve got a fight ahead of you, dear, and you’ll need all the strength you can muster.”

Chapter Twelve - Makar

The room is an echo of opulence, every corner gilded with wealth and tradition. High chandeliers cast a golden glow over the gathered audience, their murmurs fading into silence as the ceremonial proceedings begin. This is a private affair, meant for my inner circle and select allies. It isn’t a celebration—it’s a transaction.

A necessary binding.

I stand at the front, unmoving, my posture straight and composed. The silk of my tie feels suffocating, but I don’t adjust it. Instead, I let the weight of the moment settle on my shoulders, reminding myself why this has to happen.

It’s for the child. For the Sharov name. For order.

The ornate double doors at the end of the aisle creak open, and all heads turn, including mine.

Hannah stands in the doorway, a vision of defiance wrapped in satin and lace. The dress is a work of art, clinging to her figure in a way that’s both modest and striking. The sleeves of delicate lace hug her arms, and the fabric flows around her like liquid light. Her dark hair frames her face, drawing attention to her wide, unyielding eyes.

She hesitates, her hand clutching a bouquet of pale roses that trembles slightly. But even with that flicker of uncertainty, there’s strength in her stance. Her chin is lifted, her jaw set, her defiance written in every line of her body.

The sight of her stirs something unexpected in me. I’ve seen her angry, fearful, defiant—but this? This quiet resilience? It’s more captivating than I’m willing to admit.

I remind myself why I’m here. Whyshe’shere.

She begins her slow walk down the aisle, her movements graceful despite the tension radiating from her. Each step brings her closer, and I can feel the weight of every pair of eyes in the room on us. I meet her gaze briefly, and she holds it for a fraction of a second before looking away, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Good.

When she reaches the front, I extend my hand, waiting. She pauses, her hesitation obvious, before she reluctantly places her hand in mine. Her fingers are cold, her grip stiff, but I guide her to stand beside me, facing the officiant.

The priest clears his throat, his voice deep and steady as he begins the ceremony. “We are gathered here today to witness the union of Hannah Fox and Makar Sharov, bound together by the vows they will now exchange.”

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. Her face is pale but composed, her lips tight with a bitterness she doesn’t bother to hide.

“Marriage,” the priest continues, “is a sacred commitment. A promise to protect, honor, and cherish one another. Hannah, do you take Makar to be your lawful husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, for as long as you both shall live?”

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