Page 10 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

“What about the girl?”

That pulls something sharp through my chest.

“She called during the drive,” I say quietly.

“Did you answer?”

“No.”

Dima’s eyes sharpen. “She’s going to find out.”

“She already knows something’s wrong.”

He tilts his head. “You want her to come here.”

I don’t respond, because I don’t know what I want.

I remember her face the night Maxim disappeared. I remember the way she stood in the corner of that gala, alone despite being surrounded, green eyes fierce under layers of silk and civility. She didn’t belong to this world, not fully. Not yet.

“She’ll come,” I say finally. “When she does… she’ll see who he really is.”

Dima grunts in agreement. “Let’s hope she’s ready.”

I leave the room before I say something I shouldn’t.

Back in the foyer, Yakov hasn’t moved. Carter hasn’t either. His head lolls forward, blood drying at the corner of his mouth. His knuckles are white where the rope bites into his wrists.

The floor beneath him is wet. From blood or piss, I don’t care.

I walk up slowly, crouch beside him again. His breath rattles. One eye opens.

“This is your legacy now,” I murmur. “Tied up. Forgotten. Weak.”

He tries to say something. His lips move, but no sound comes out.

“I want you to remember this moment. When you hear your daughter’s voice. When she looks at you and sees what’s left.”

I stand.

“You made a ghost out of my brother.” I turn toward the stairs. “Now I’m going to make one out of you.”

Chapter Three - Alina

The night air is cool against my skin as I step out of the car, the gravel crunching softly beneath my heels.

I breathe in deep, trying to shake the weight of the evening—the too-slick smiles, the empty conversations, the phantom pressure of all those eyes pretending not to measure me. The estate looms in front of me, its tall windows glowing faintly, like the house is half asleep.

My gown clings to me, still perfect, still shimmering under the moonlight. It hugs my waist and falls in smooth, expensive folds, dusting against the cold stone path. The diamonds at my throat catch what little light there is, glittering like secrets. I wrap my arms around myself as I walk up the steps, heels clicking in a steady rhythm I don’t feel.

I’m tired. My body aches from pretending. I just want to go inside, kick off my shoes, and pretend, for one night, that this place still feels like home.

The driver pulls away without a word. I reach the door, unlock it, and step inside.

The silence hits me first.

Not the usual kind, not the stillness I grew up with in this house—clean and deliberate and expensive—but something heavier. Denser. The kind that settles low in your gut, makes the hairs on the back of your neck lift. The kind that warns.

I freeze just past the threshold. The air is too thick. Too still.

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