Page 54 of Forced Innocent Bratva Bride

My brows arched in disbelief. “Classical music?”

He nodded. “I know.” Oscar crossed his legs, adjusting in the chair. “Had the same reaction when I found out.” Helet out a soft sigh. “Girls her age usually listen to modern-day music, modern-day tunes and beats. But not Lorena.” His smile broadened. “She's different…special.” Pride laced his words.

I had to admit, I didn't see that coming. She never struck me as one who'd listen to such “boring” music, as her mates often tagged it.

Once again, I was wrong to have judged her based on the lifestyle and preferences of folks her age. First, it was her purity; now, it was her mature mind, and a part of me couldn't wait to learn more intriguing stuff about this young woman.

“Lorena's always wanted to attend concerts, and she's got a special fondness for Chopin. But, if I'm being honest, I think her favorite composer is actually Tchaikovsky.”

My brows arched in disbelief, a faint grin lining a corner of my lips. “Tchaikovsky?” I asked to be sure I heard him right.

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky was a renowned Russian composer, famous in the ‘80s, and as fate would have it, I loved his music as well.

“Yeah,” he replied, retaining his smile. “She loves his ballets—Swan Lake,The Nutcracker….” He chuckled, adding, “She even had a special CD of the Bolshoi Ballet performingSwan Lake, and she used to listen to it all the time.”

Impressive,I thought, my interest piqued by this unexpected revelation.

Now, I knew exactly what to do.

I reclined into my chair, a sly smile spreading across my face.

Chapter 20 – Lorena

My sulking had turned into a quick nap as I lay in bed, exhausted from all that thinking. My mind needed some time off, and I didn't realize that I'd drifted off to sleep until now.

The gentle buzz of my phone resting on the bedside table caught my attention, pulling me out of my slumber. My eyelids fluttered open, and I felt a pang of irritation at this quiet interruption that had seeped into my little moment of peace.

I didn't want to be disturbed by anyone. All I wanted was to be by myself. Was that too much to ask?

I rubbed the remnants of sleep from my eyes and flung my hand to the bedside table, groping for my phone. The quiet hum was an indication that I'd received a text message, and just before my fingers grasped the phone, my brows narrowed in displeasure.

There was a seventy-five percent chance that the text was from my dad. Maybe he was still trying to get me to have dinner with him. I'd turned down his offer the last time he reached out and still hadn't changed my mind.

It would take some time before I'd let go of the pain of him selling me off in exchange for wealth and power. He hadn’t cared when he willingly sacrificed me to save his empire, so how come he suddenly grew a conscience?

I was almost certain that the text was from him, and no matter how much he tried to reconcile with me, I wasn't going to make things easy for him. No. He hurt me more than he could possibly know, and the pain was still fresh.

My fingers wrapped around the phone, and I squinted at the brightness of the screen, my thumb sliding down the notification bar. My brows arched, and I slowly sat up at the content of the text and the identity of the sender.

It turned out that the message wasn't from Dad; rather, it was from my least favorite person in the world.

Alexei.

This was a huge surprise. I hadn’t expected to hear from him, given that we hadn't been on talking terms all day.

The message read, “Be ready by 8 P.M. We have an event to attend.”

My brows furrowed, forming faint creases between them, as I felt a flicker of vexation at his tone. Who did he think he was texting, a thirteen-year-old? I gritted my teeth in annoyance, tossing the phone away on the bed.

I was still mad at him for his condescending attitude from last night, and he just had to fuel my rage with his arrogant dominance. Alexei had no respect for my rights whatsoever; he behaved like he was oblivious to the fact that I was human with free will and the ability to decide for myself—to make my own choices.

He hadn’t even been polite enough to ask whether I'd like to go to the event with him; he didn't bother to ask if I was feeling alright, knowing my condition. No. Alexei, as usual, only cared about what he wanted and about being respected. His message was laced with finality, meaning he was leaving me with no choice but to do as I was told.

My jaw tightened, fingers squeezing against the sheets as I seethed in silence. I didn't entirely blame him for treating me with this much condescension. It was Oscar Campbell's fault—hewas to blame for all of this.

Alexei, with all his power and influence, would never have had the opportunity to treat me like a piece of property if Dad hadn't sold me to him. He didn't think that I was capable of making my own decisions because I'd succumbed to my father's bidding and sacrificed my life.

He had no respect for me as his wife, no regard for the mother of his unborn child. All he cared about was himself, his reputation, and the fear he commanded.

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