Page 4 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
“I heard she’s clean,” he says eventually. “No priors, no connections. Grew up with her mother somewhere quiet.”
I turn. “You checked?”
“Mateo’s face said more than his words. They’re betting on pity. That’s their play.”
“She’s not getting pity.”
He studies me for a long moment, then shrugs. “Didn’t think so.”
I head to the table, thumbing through the folders Tiago left behind. The last one bears her name. Kiera Vargas.
A photo paperclipped to the front shows her at some charity event. Dress fitted but modest. A strand of hair tucked behind one ear. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes—wide, watchful—hold something that doesn’t belong on a pawn.
“She’s pretty,” Platon offers, glancing over my shoulder.
“She’s Ortega’s daughter.”
He grunts, scratching his jaw. “And you’re Sharov. Maybe it’s fitting.”
I close the folder slowly.
“She’ll meet me once,” I say. “That’s all Dominik gave them.”
Platon leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Let me guess. You already made up your mind.”
I don’t answer. Not with words. I hand him the file.
“Have the restaurant prepped for Thursday night. Private room. No distractions. No press.”
He takes it, eyes narrowing. “She’s coming to you?”
“She wants to play a game,” I murmur. “Let’s see how well she follows the rules.”
Chapter One - Kiera
The pins don’t hurt, but they feel sharp anyway—cold little pricks against my scalp as the housekeeper secures the final strand. She hums something under her breath, soft and tuneless, while I watch myself in the mirror.
The dress is beautiful. I can admit that, at least. Soft navy silk that clings just enough to suggest a shape, then falls away like it’s too well-mannered to be bold. The sleeves graze my wrists. The neckline is modest. The fabric shimmers faintly in the light, expensive without being loud.
Tiago picked it. I didn’t get a say.
I press my palms flat against my thighs, trying not to think about how damp they are. My skin feels too hot. My breath is steady, but my stomach churns slow and steady like it’s waiting to be sick. I stare at my reflection, wondering if I look how I’m supposed to. Calm. Controlled. Valuable.
The dress doesn’t feel like mine. It feels like a costume. Like something meant to make me disappear into someone else’s story.
I remember being seven, sitting on the edge of a twin bed while my mother tugged at the hem of a white dress. Her fingers always smelled like lavender and bleach. “Stand up straight,” she said. “Smile. Good girls represent the family.”
That was the first time I realized clothes could be weapons. This dress isn’t any different.
“You look beautiful, miss,” the housekeeper says gently, stepping back.
I offer her a small smile. “Thank you.”
Still, I don’t believe it. The woman in the mirror looks like she was built for display. Not for touch, or care.
When I’m alone again, I try out a few expressions. A warm smile. A hesitant one. Eyes up, chin soft. One brow slightly lifted. No, too defiant. I settle on something quiet. Meek, but not pitiful. Careful. Like I’m trying to be polite while the room burns behind me.
This isn’t a dinner. It’s a performance. A test?
