Page 6 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
I breathe through my nose, keep my eyes low.
The corridor we’re led down is narrow, lined with half-closed doors and gold sconces. The carpet muffles our footsteps,but each step feels louder than the last. Like I’m echoing in my own ears.
The man at the front says something—“Private room at the end, Mr. Ortega”—and Tiago nods once. Still, he doesn’t speak to me. Not a word since we left the house.
It’s encouragement. It’s warning.
He’s already passed me off in his mind. Already stripped me of my name and replaced it with potential.
The air grows colder the further we walk.
I pass the bar, where a bartender rinses empty glasses with clinical precision. His gaze doesn’t lift.
Somewhere behind one of the closed doors, someone laughs. Low and male. The sound dies quickly.
I walk slower.
Each step takes me further from who I was. From the house with the locked windows. From the mother who said nothing when Tiago made his plans. From the version of myself who still thought silence would be enough.
The hallway bends, and at the very end, a door waits—closed, heavy-looking, backlit by a warm yellow glow.
I already know he’s on the other side.
Waiting. Watching the clock.
I smooth my palms down the sides of my dress, take one final breath, and step forward.
The hostess opens the door without a word, her face a polished mask of discretion. She steps aside and gestures for me to enter. The moment feels practiced, like they’ve done this before, countless times, for men whose names are never written down.
Tiago stops behind me, hand falling away from my back. He doesn’t cross the threshold. I feel it before I turn to look. His silence isn’t indifference. It’s a signal. This part is mine. My responsibility. My consequence.
He nods once, curt. Then he’s gone.
The door eases shut behind me, the latch catching with a soft click that sounds far too final. The quiet of the private room is deeper than the hallway. Not the absence of sound, exactly—there’s soft music curling through hidden speakers, something instrumental and expensive—but it feels insulated. Sealed off from the rest of the world.
My spine is straight, shoulders back, every inch of me arranged like armor. But the nerves fray beneath the surface, jittering low in my stomach and higher still, pressing against the hollow of my throat. I can feel my pulse there, fast and anxious.
The room is beautiful. Of course it is.
The lighting is low and warm, casting soft shadows that hug the edges of the walls. There’s velvet on the chairs, deep red and understated. The table is set for two—linen napkins, crystal glasses, silver flatware that glints in the glow from overhead. A bottle of something dark waits in an ice bucket beside the table, unopened.
There’s no one else here. Or if they are, they haven’t made themselves known.
My fingers twitch at my sides.
The carpet mutes my steps as I move further into the room. My shoes make only the faintest sound against it, but even that feels too loud. Too sharp. I slow my pace, letting each footfall sink in without rushing, without hesitating.
Breathe in through your nose. Out through your mouth.
I reach the table and pause, one hand brushing the back of the nearest chair. I don’t sit.
I keep my posture calm. Chin slightly lowered. Eyes soft.
I am the girl they expect—unsure, quiet, deferential. I wear it like perfume.
I don’t know what this man looks like. I haven’t been shown photos, haven’t been told what to expect. I only know his name: Maxim Sharov. That he has the power to end this deal with a single word. Maybe with a glance.
Maybe I should want him to.
