Page 63 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I need air.

The ballroom is too warm. Too loud. The music swells in my chest, and Kolya’s hand hasn’t left my back in hours. He keeps his palm there like he’s pinning me in place, like if he let go for even a moment, I might slip through the cracks in the floor and disappear.

He’s not wrong.

Disappearing feels impossible in this dress. Every pair of eyes lands on me like they’ve been trained to. Every whispered conversation seems to turn just as we pass. The silk clings to my legs, my spine, my ribs. It doesn’t breathe, and neither can I.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, barely looking at him.

Kolya doesn’t stop me. He just gives a nod, slow and unreadable, before returning to the men clustered around him—men in tailored suits with heavy watches and heavier secrets. Men who nod at him with smiles that never reach their eyes.

I slip through a side door and into the corridor beyond, heels tapping quietly against polished marble. The coolness of the hall wraps around me like a second skin, merciful and sharp. My lungs finally expand.

I lean against the wall and close my eyes, just for a moment. One breath. Two.

“You always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

My eyes fly open.

The voice is familiar. Too familiar. I turn slowly, and there she is. Alina Carter.

Auburn hair swept into a loose knot, green eyes lined in soft gold, lips curved in a smile I don’t trust—but also don’t hate. She’s shorter than I remember, maybe because I’m wearing heels, or maybe because she’s thinner than she used to be. But the smile is the same. So is the spark in her gaze.

“I—Alina?”

She laughs softly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I blink, stunned. “I feel like one.”

Her brows knit. “Elise… what the hell are you doing here?”

I want to ask her the same thing, but the words don’t form.

Instead, I take her in—her expensive dress, her glittering clutch, the quiet confidence in her stance. She belongs here, somehow. She fits. Not like me.

“I’m with—” I hesitate. I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to see her face change. “Kolya Sharov.”

Her smile fades. Slowly. Carefully. “With?”

I nod once, the movement stiff. “Engaged.”

To her credit, she doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look away. But I can see it all happening behind her eyes—the shock, the confusion, the calculation.

“Elise,” she says gently, “I heard rumors, but I didn’t believe them. About you. About him. You—you’re really—”

“Yeah.”

A beat. Then, “Are you okay?”

It’s the way she says it—low, soft, like she already knows the answer. Like she expects a lie.

I force a smile. “Define okay.”

She doesn’t press. Maybe she knows better than to push. Maybe she sees something in my face that makes her pause.

“I didn’t think I’d see anyone I knew tonight,” I say instead, needing to steer the conversation somewhere—anywhere—else.

“Neither did I.” Her tone turns careful. “My uncle’s involved with some of the Russian investors here. Real estate deals. I got dragged along as the token pretty face.”

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