Page 3 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

A man in his forties leans in too close, cologne thick and cloying. His cuff links flash when he lifts his glass.

“You’ve really grown up, Alina. Your father must be proud.”

“He’s always proud,” I lie.

He chuckles like he believes me. Like he doesn’t know Richard Carter hasn’t bothered to show his face in three months—not for a dinner, not for a phone call, not even tonight, when the entire gala is honoring him.

“He’s a visionary,” the man continues. “When he steps back… well, the legacy’s in good hands.”

He raises his glass to me like a toast. Like an offer.

I smile again. Smaller this time. Colder. “Enjoy the evening.”

I walk away before he can respond.

The heels ache against the balls of my feet, but I don’t slow down. I keep my back straight, my jaw relaxed, my breath shallow enough to hide the tightness in my chest.

There’s no one to talk to, not really. I don’t trust anyone here. Most of them knew me when I was twelve, smiled at me with sharp eyes while whispering about my mother’s disappearance behind crystal glasses.

Eleanor finds me near the bar. “God, you’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Looking like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

I take a sip of my drink. It’s warm already. “I would.”

She links her arm through mine and leans in. “Come on. I want you to meet someone.”

I don’t argue. The only thing worse than being alone in this room is looking like I am.

Eleanor leads me toward the corner of the ballroom, where the light dips just enough to feel private. A girl stands there with her back to us, long dark hair cascading down the back of a black velvet dress that’s a little too daring for this crowd.

“She’s young,” I murmur.

“She’s eighteen. Sharp as hell. Kiera Vargas. Her invitation came through one of the Latin American investors.”

Kiera turns as we approach. She’s gorgeous—unapologetically so—with sun-warmed skin and eyes like polished obsidian. Her expression is calm, bored, curious. All at once.

“So you’re the infamous Alina Carter.”

Her voice is low, slightly amused.

“That depends,” I say. “Are you here to flatter me or judge me?”

She laughs, genuine and bright. “Neither. I’m just here for the food.”

“Respectable.” I glance at her plate. Empty.

“I ate already,” she says. “These things never feed you enough anyway. It’s all about being seen, right?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I say it like someone who wasn’t raised to play dress-up with billionaires.”

Eleanor chuckles behind her drink. “I like you two together. You’re both a little mean.”

“I’m not mean,” I reply.

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