Page 9 of Plus-Size Curves for the Bratva

I turn away, my legs feeling unsteady as I make my way through the crowd. The opulent ballroom suddenly feels suffocating, the cheerful chatter of guests grating on my nerves. I spot a balcony and make a beeline for it, desperate for a moment of solitude.

The cool night air hits my flushed skin as I step outside. I grip the ornate railing, my knuckles turning white. "Get it together, Natalia," I whisper to myself.

I hear someone behind me. I turn, emotions heightened and when I see who it is, my shoulders relax.

My best friend, Anya, comes and stands next to me at the railing. "You okay?" she whispers, concern etched on her face.

I paste on a smile. "Just needed some air. It's a lot to take in."

Anya squeezes my arm. "I can't imagine. But hey, at least your new husband is hot, right?"

I roll my eyes, but can't help the small laugh that escapes. "Anya!"

"What? I'm just saying what everyone's thinking."

I shake my head, grateful for her attempt to lighten the mood. But as I think of Denis, I can't deny the spark I felt earlier. It's unexpected and confusing, but undeniably there.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I admit quietly to Anya.

She gives me a sympathetic smile. "Nobody does, Honey. But you're Natalia Orlov. If anyone can figure this out, it's you."

Her words echo my own earlier pep talk, and I feel a surge of determination. Whatever this is with Denis, whatever comes next, I'll face it on my own terms. I may not have chosen this marriage, but I can choose how I navigate it.

"You're right," I tell Anya, squaring my shoulders. "I've got this. Let’s go back inside.”

Chapter 4 - Denis

I push open the heavy oak door, only to be crushed with disappointment at the resounding emptiness of it. What was I expecting? To find her in the living room, curled up with a book? To hear her say we could eat dinner together?

Like every night, every room is empty. Apart from just one: Hers.

From the moment we got home after the wedding, she’s avoided me like the plague. She has breakfast after I leave. Dinner in her room. If we accidentally bang into one another, any attempt at conversation is shut down fast and hard by some lame excuse or the other.

Where is she hiding this time? My beautiful, stubborn wife seems determined to avoid me at all costs.

Shrugging off my jacket, I head to the kitchen. Maybe I can lure her out with the scent of her favorite meal. As I gather ingredients for borscht, I can't help but chuckle at the irony. Here I am, one of the most feared men in the Bratva, reduced to cooking soup to win over a girl.

"Natalia?" I call out, my voice echoing through the halls. No response. Of course.

As the borscht simmers, filling the air with a rich aroma, I set the table with our best China. The candlelight flickers, casting dancing shadows across the crisp white tablecloth. Perfect for a romantic dinner—if only my wife would deign to join me.

"Natalia, are you hungry?" I try again, straining to hear any sign of movement upstairs.

Nothing but silence greets me. Frustration bubbles up inside me, warring with my protective instincts. I want to give her space, to prove I'm not the plague she thinks I am. But how can I when she won't even look at me?

I ladle the steaming borscht into bowls, arranging a plate of pirozhki beside them. The table looks inviting, intimate. Everything a newlywed couple could want for a cozy evening in.

Except we're anything but a normal couple. This marriage was forced upon her, a political alliance she certainly didn’t want. I know this from her own words and the research I did into how the proposal came through. But I'm determined to make it work.

After all, we are married for life, and there’s no reason why ours shouldn’t be a happy one.

If only she'd give me a chance.

I listen intently, trying to detect any movement from upstairs. The house remains stubbornly quiet, but I know Natalia's up there, probably plotting her next escape. A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. She's clever, my little wife, always finding new ways to evade me.

I stride to the study, retrieving a bottle of Natalia's favorite wine—a sweet Riesling I'd noticed her eyeing at our wedding reception. Uncorking it, I pour out a glass and carry one upstairs.

As I walk up, I imagine Natalia's stubbornness in action. She's probably curled up with a book, steadfastly ignoring her growling stomach. The image both frustrates and endears her to me.

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