Page 7 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
The room feels colder by degrees. I glance toward the door again, half expecting Tiago to return and call it off. But the handle doesn’t turn. There’s no sound outside. Only the music and the whisper of my own breath, barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears.
I wonder what kind of man walks into a room knowing a woman has been offered to him like property. I wonder what he’ll see when he looks at me. If he’ll care about the way my hands keep clenching and unclenching behind the folds of my dress. If he’ll notice the way my mouth won’t stop pressing into a line, no matter how hard I try to look pliant.
I glance at the chair again. Finally, slowly, I sit.
My back doesn’t touch the cushion. I keep myself upright, knees together, hands folded in my lap. Proper. Pretty.
Time passes slowly in places like this. There are no clocks, no outside noise to measure it. I have no idea how long I’ve been here. Five minutes. Ten. Long enough for my nerves to shift into something else. Not calm. Not exactly. But… hollow.
Still, I wait, because everything changes after this. One way or another.
Chapter Two - Maxim
The drink in my hand sits untouched. I swirl it once, watching the amber liquid catch the light, then let it settle again. It’s a habit more than anything—something to do with my fingers while I wait.
The room around me is silent. Polished. Immaculate. Like everything in this city that costs too much to show its price.
I’m dressed for the occasion. A dark tailored suit, nothing flashy, nothing soft. A knife in silk. There’s no warmth in the way I wear it. My face is a closed door. My thoughts locked behind it.
This isn’t a date. It’s not about attraction or charm. I don’t need to impress her.
This is leverage.
A blood-tied alliance with the Ortegas means more than peace. It means control. It means influence. Marry her, and her brother owes me. Publicly. Permanently. He becomes an extension of the Bratva’s reach.
Knowing that doesn’t make the bitterness taste any better.
I resent being offered up like a solution. Like a name to sign on a contract in blood and bone. Dominik didn’t phrase it as an order, but I’ve been under him long enough to hear what goes unspoken. This isn’t about want. It’s about necessity.
Marriage as a weapon. A transaction. A calculated move dressed up in tradition.
It stinks of hypocrisy.
They talk of unity. Peace. Except, peace by force isn’t peace at all. It’s just a quieter form of war.
I glance at my watch. She’s been waiting, I’m the one stalling.
I know she’s in the next room—alone, waiting for a stranger to decide her future. And I’m sitting here nursing a drink I have no intention of finishing, dragging out the moment like that’ll change anything.
I expect the usual. A girl dressed up in borrowed grace. Soft hands, polished manners. Someone who thinks her name means something outside of her brother’s reach. A liability wrapped in silk and vague promises. Someone too spoiled to know the cost of survival.
My guard shifts subtly behind me. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. The room is locked down. Every corner secured. Even the staff know better than to linger.
Enough stalling.
I stand, adjusting the cuffs of my jacket, then head down the corridor. My shoes make no sound on the carpet. The air grows tighter the closer I get.
The door at the end opens with a soft push.
She’s seated, back straight, hands folded in her lap. Composed. Expectant.
The second our eyes meet, something flickers between us. Not fear. Recognition?
I take her in without hiding it. Every inch. The dress clings to her in quiet ways—modest, expensive, carefully chosen to project purity, not seduction. But it doesn’t hide her. It frames her. Soft curves beneath silk. Shoulders drawn back despite the nerves I can feel rolling off her in waves. There’s a flush rising along her cheeks, high and pink. Embarrassment? Nerves? Fear?
She’s beautiful, and far too innocent to be sitting across from me.
I shouldn’t want her. Not like this. Not when she’s being used as a tool. Not when this entire arrangement reeks of desperation and control.
