Page 59 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

That burns worse than the shame.

Worse than guilt.

It eats at me in quieter ways, whispering things I don’t want to believe.

Did he not want me after all?

Was I just leverage, a game he’s already won? Did he use me and decide that was enough?

The thought slices deeper than I expect. Not because it surprises me—but because of how much it hurts.

I throw the sheets off, the sudden chill of the room biting at my bare legs as I stand. I need space. Air. Something that doesn’t feel like a cage built from my own thoughts.

The door creaks when I push it open. For a second, I expect resistance—a guard posted, a voice telling me I’m not allowed. But there’s nothing.

Two men stationed at the end of the hall glance up, then look away just as quickly. They don’t stop me. They don’t even seem to care.

My bare feet move soundlessly over the marble floor as I step out, wrapping a thin robe tighter around my frame.

The floors are cold beneath my feet as I wander, robe whispering around my ankles with every step. The halls stretch on like a labyrinth—marble and polished wood, gilded frames, doors that never seem to open. Everything in this place is expensive and impersonal, designed to impress, never comfort.

I don’t know how long I’ve been walking.

My mind runs faster than my feet, but I’m numb to the sting in my heels, the ache in my calves. The silence is oppressive, pressing down from the high ceilings like it’s meant to crush thought. To keep girls like me quiet.

Then—air.

A door left ajar, thin white curtains stirred by a breeze. I push it open and step onto the terrace.

The night greets me in a rush. Cool air wraps around my body, a clean, bracing relief after days of stale quiet. I exhale, letting my hands grip the stone ledge as I lean forward, finally—finally—alone.

Until I hear it.

Laughter. Glasses clinking. Voices—low, amused, dangerous.

I blink, heart hitching.

Below me, the mansion’s lower terrace sprawls in golden decadence. A private gathering. Not a party—something worse. Sleek cars gleam beneath the outdoor lights, lined like a showroom. Men in tailored suits sip aged liquor and speak in hushed tones that still carry weight. Glittering women drape themselves over them, mouths painted and perfect, diamonds catching the light like shattered stars.

Everything shimmers with wealth and violence.

In the center of it all—him.

Andrei.

He stands with one hand in his pocket, a cigarette dangling from the other, the smoke curling lazily around his jaw. His head tips back slightly as someone speaks beside him, and he gives a smile—detached, bored, utterly composed.

Like nothing touches him.

Like I never happened.

My stomach turns, the bile rising so fast I have to grip the railing to steady myself. How can he look so calm? So polished, so fucking untouched, while I lie awake night after night, burning with shame and silence?

I step back, already turning to leave.

Too late.

His eyes find me.

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