Page 1 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Chapter One - Alina

The dress costs more than most people make in a month. Midnight blue silk, the fabric soft as breath and colder than it should be. It hugs the slope of my waist before flaring just enough to suggest elegance instead of intent, and when I move, it shifts like water. The kind of dress that photographs well. The kind people remember.

The kind you wear when your presence is a performance.

I smooth a hand over the bodice, checking for flaws that don’t exist. The mirror reflects back a girl who looks like she belongs. Hair done, makeup perfect, every detail curated for a night that’s supposed to matter.

Except it doesn’t. Not really.

Outside, the city blinks like it’s bored—traffic crawling along the skyline, windows glowing in glass towers across from ours. I press two fingers to the windowpane and let the chill soak into my skin. Thirty-seven floors up and I still feel like a prisoner.

The intercom buzzes behind me. One short tone.

Marina, our housekeeper.

“Miss Carter?” Her voice crackles slightly over the speaker. “The car’s downstairs.”

“Thank you.”

I don’t move right away.

My phone lights up beside the vanity. No new messages. No surprise.

I pick it up anyway, scroll through the old ones like I’m looking for something. Anything. A missed text. A sign. A reason not to go alone again.

There’s nothing.

I switch the screen off and set it down without locking it. Maybe someone will pick it up and text me something worth reading.

Maybe pigs will fly.

The heels I chose are tall, narrow, brutal. I slide them on anyway. Beauty has always come with pain in this family. A lesson my mother taught me without ever saying the words.

She left when I was ten.

I used to wonder what it was she needed so badly she couldn’t find it here. Now I think I understand. Loneliness doesn’t care about square footage. A mansion is just a prettier cage.

When I reach the elevator, Marina is waiting with a black clutch in her hands. She gives me the same soft smile she always does—tight, practiced, sympathetic around the edges.

“You look lovely, Miss.”

“Thank you.”

“Your father—?”

“He’s not coming.” I take the clutch from her fingers, careful not to make it sound like I care. “He’s busy.”

Always busy.

She hesitates. “It’s a shame. The papers say this gala is honoring him.”

“It is.” My smile is just as practiced. “Which means he’ll probably send a check and call it support.”

Marina’s expression softens, but she doesn’t say anything else. Just presses the button for the elevator and steps back.

The doors open with a mechanical sigh.

Inside, the mirror walls reflect me in four directions. I glance up once, then look away. It’s easier to stare at the floor. The ride down is silent except for the faint hum of movement, the whirr of descent. When it stops, the valet is already holding the car door open.

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