Page 36 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Carter gasps like she’s stabbed him. “No,” he breathes, barely loud enough to carry. “No, Alina. You don’t—”

“I do,” she says, louder now. “I want this.”

She turns to him then, but her face stays composed. “You should leave, Father. You don’t belong here.”

Every man in the room shifts. Quietly. Uncomfortably. They didn’t come for this. They came to watch a powerful man fall. Not to see his daughter deliver the final blow.

Carter stares at her, his mouth slack, his body trembling.

“I did this for you,” he whispers.

Alina’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m doing this for you now. Don’t worry about me.”

A beat passes, and then I signal to the guards.

Carter doesn’t resist. Maybe he can’t. Maybe her words gutted him more than any gun ever could. He sags in their grip, eyes still locked on his daughter as they haul him away. He’s not weeping anymore. Just hollow. Like something vital has been stripped from him and there’s nothing left but the ruin.

The doors close behind them with a sharp, echoing thud.

The room exhales.

The priest clears his throat, tentative. “Shall I… continue?”

I glance at Alina. She’s still looking at the doors. Then her gaze slides to me.

For the first time in years, I feel something shift in my chest—something I can’t name.

She just protected him, even after everything.

Even here, in the belly of the beast, she shielded the man who gave her away.

The priest clears his throat again, louder this time, a brittle sound echoing through the high-vaulted room.

I turn toward him slowly and nod once.

The man’s hands shake as he opens the book again, flipping to the marked page, his thumbs pressed white against the gilded edges. He begins the ceremony with a forced calm, reciting the lines in solemn, even tones.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today—”

The words are smoke to me. I barely hear them.

My gaze is on Alina.

She stands beside me, veil lifted now, hair pinned neatly behind her ears, skin pale but smooth. No visible cracks, no exposed edges. She is perfect for the part—poised, silent, devastating in white. And yet there’s nothing docile about her.

Even now, with the world watching, she does not lower her eyes.

When the priest asks who gives this woman, the silence is deafening. There is no father to step forward. No willing hand to offer her as if she were property. The absence of tradition is louder than the words themselves. And everyone hears it.

It’s a void I created. One I meant to savor.

She fills it with her stillness. Her steadiness.

When the priest turns to me, asking if I take her to be my wife, I respond without hesitation.

“I do.”

When the same question is posed to her, there’s a pause.

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