Page 31 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

“You think this is normal?” I shout. “You think this is okay?”

One reaches for the tray of rings and combs, and I slap it away with a furious cry, sending it clattering to the floor in a spray of gold and pearls. The noise is sharp, glorious. It feeds something in me.

I hurl the slippers next, across the room. Then I rip the veil from the older maid’s arms and toss it aside. I shove the edge of the table hard enough that it groans against the floorand topples the water pitcher. Liquid splashes across the rug like shattered glass.

“Do you hear me?” I scream. “I’m not putting it on! I’m not marrying him! He’s a monster!”

The maids scatter like frightened birds, rushing for the door.

All except one. Her voice slices through the noise like a blade—low, firm, undeniable.

“Enough.”

I freeze.

The senior housekeeper steps forward, calm and unimpressed, brushing past the others with a quiet authority that silences the room even before she speaks again.

“Leave us,” she says over her shoulder, and the younger maids obey without question, slipping through the door like shadows.

Now it’s just the two of us.

I stand amid the mess I’ve made, chest heaving, breath caught between fury and despair. My hands tremble at my sides, but I hold her gaze.

She’s older than the others. Tall, with steel in her posture and lines etched into the corners of her mouth from years of holding her tongue. But her eyes are clear. Sharp.

She steps toward the dress, smooths the fabric with one palm, then looks back at me.

“I know this isn’t what you want,” she says. “Throwing tantrums won’t change where you are.”

My mouth opens, closes. “So I’m just supposed to accept it?”

“Yes.”

That stops me.

She walks around the bed slowly, not flinching from the ruined tray or the broken rhythm of my breath. “He’s not what you think, but he’s not kind either. The rules here are different. They don’t bend.”

“I’m not going to be anyone’s bride,” I whisper.

Her eyes meet mine again, and for a moment, there’s something softer there. Not pity. Not sympathy. Something closer to understanding.

“You should be grateful,” the housekeeper says.

Her voice is calm, but it cuts through the silence like broken glass, every word sharp-edged and deliberate.

I stiffen. Grateful—for this?

My hands clench at my sides, trembling with rage. I feel it in every part of me now, burning in my chest, clawing its way up my throat until it threatens to choke me. The dress. The locked doors. The forced vows. The man who watches me like he owns me, like he’s already decided how I’ll live and die.

Grateful.

“What did you just say?” I whisper, not trusting my voice to rise higher.

The housekeeper’s gaze doesn’t waver. She stands with the poise of someone who’s lived through storms, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her back straight, her chin lifted as if daring me to argue.

“You heard me.”

I take a step forward, fury scraping across my ribs. “You think I should thank him for tearing me from my home? For dragging me into this twisted game—”

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