Page 33 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

“I won’t wear it,” I say weakly, though even I don’t believe the words.

The first woman doesn’t respond, her hands already working to dry my hair. The second begins preparing the dress, smoothing out wrinkles and adjusting the delicate lace detailing.

As they dress me, my reflection in the mirror catches my eye. I barely recognize the girl staring back. Her face is pale, her eyes hollow, but her hair gleams, and the dress fits like it was made for her.

For me.

Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. I refuse to let them see me cry.

The women work swiftly, their hands moving with practiced precision as they tailor the dress to fit me perfectly. I stand stiffly in the center of the room, arms outstretched slightly, while they pin and stitch, adjusting the fabric against my skin.

The dress is undeniably beautiful, but it’s nothing like what I would have chosen for myself. The material is a soft, luxurious satin in a creamy shade of white, fitted to skim my curves before flaring out slightly at the hips.

The neckline is daring, plunging just enough to hint at sensuality without crossing into overt territory, while the lace sleeves cling delicately to my arms, ending just below the wrists.

It’s elegant. Classy. Sultry.

It’s everything I’m not.

The woman kneeling at my feet, adjusting the hem, hums softly as she works. “This fabric is exquisite,” she says, glancing up with a smile. “Mr. Sharov has excellent taste.”

I say nothing, my jaw clenched as I focus on the far wall, trying to ignore the weight of the dress and the situation.

The other woman, working on the back of the gown, chimes in. “It’s rare these days to see a proper wedding,” she says, her tone light and conversational. “Such an occasion to celebrate. You must be so excited.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. My hands curl into fists at my sides, the anger and helplessness bubbling beneath the surface threatening to spill over.

“She looks nervous,” the woman at my feet adds, misinterpreting my silence. “Don’t worry, dear. It’s natural to feel jittery before the big day.”

My lips part, a biting retort on the tip of my tongue, but I snap my mouth shut, knowing it’s useless. These women don’t understand. They think this is normal. That this ismy choice.

The absurdity of it stings worse than the sharp prick of a pin that grazes my side.

“Sorry!” the seamstress says quickly, her face flushed with embarrassment. “Just a slip. I’ll be more careful.”

I force a tight smile, the motion making my face ache. “It’s fine,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

The minutes drag on, each one more excruciating than the last, until finally, the women step back to admire their work.

“There,” the first one says, clapping her hands together with satisfaction. “You look stunning.”

I glance at my reflection in the full-length mirror, and the girl staring back looks nothing like me. The dress fits perfectly, hugging and flowing in all the right places, the delicate lace shimmering faintly in the light.

Her eyes—my eyes—are hollow, her expression tight and unyielding.

“She’s perfect,” the other woman agrees, gathering her tools.

They begin packing up their things, chatting softly between themselves as they leave the room. Neither of them notices the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks.

A moment later, the door opens again, and the housemaid steps inside, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She’s older, her face kind but lined with the weight of years, her eyes soft as they take me in.

“Oh, child,” she says, her voice gentle.

The dam breaks, and I cover my face with my hands as the tears spill over. I feel her approach, the soft rustle of her skirt, and then her hands are on my shoulders, guiding me to sit on the edge of the bed.

She kneels in front of me, her hands resting lightly on mine. “Let it out,” she murmurs. “You’ve been holding it in too long.”

Her words undo me, and the sobs come, wracking my body as I cry into my hands.

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