Page 1 of The Russian's Forced Bride
Prologue – Arlette
The night was charged with sizzling tension—a foreboding feeling that seemed to warn me of a danger looming ahead, but my mind was focused on other things.
The atmosphere reeked of lust and sweat, an ungodly combination that made my eyes bleed as music reverberated around me, pulsing through my veins. Red and blue neon lights flashed across the room, soaking it in a veil of sex appeal as the air steamed with sin and fruity perfumes seductively hanging off each corner.
A burgundy Balmain dress that barely reached my mid-thighs clung uncomfortably to my skin, offering little room to breathe while accentuating my curves perfectly. Hungry eyes of men from across theHi Ibizaclub undressed me as I remained seated at my table, back arched upright, with the stilettos on my feet threatening to leave me unable to walk after the night’s events.
The club was filled with men and women alike, groping themselves. Half-naked women with their breasts on full display swung off the poles situated at each corner of the club while eyes ravaged them.
From behind closed doors, the sounds of moans and groans alike crept through the walls, mostly overshadowed by the music pulsating through the room like a living organism.
But I wasn’t here to party at the wildest club on the whole island, even though that was the excuse I had given my best friend, Eleanor, who had been swallowed in the crowd of sweaty bodies, grinding against a stranger.
She had given up on trying to convince me to join her in dancing. It was her birthday, after all, and we were supposed to have fun, but I just, for the life of me, couldn’t.
Not while that man was here. Not while I had a deal to seal.
My rosé sat untouched on the table next to a half-eaten charcuterie plate and a puddle of melted ice. I had lost my appetite from the moment he walked in, his distinctive features hard to miss even amid the crowd.
I had seen him walk through the black cords that separated the VIP section from the rest of the club, like a private VIP island, where velvet-colored couches and servers in all black poured Dom into glasses like water.
Damien Fredaya.
I had come here to seal a partnership deal with him that could skyrocket the finances of Father’s company. He was a man who could proudly claim to have the business world at his fingertips, and I had been chasing him ever since I learned he’d be at this club at this time. But once he had disappeared into the VIP room, it seemed like he just vanished into thin air, which confused the hell out of me.
My eyes stayed fixed on the VIP spot as time seemed to pass so slowly. I had to close this deal with him.
I needed Father to see that I could make decisions not just to expand our company internationally but to take it to a global level—anything that could convince him that selling me off to marry a billionaire wasn’t the best way to strengthen and broaden our influence.
And while my mind wandered through various thoughts, I caught a glimpse of the man I had been searching for all night. He was dressed in a costly midnight-blue Tom Ford suit, his greyish hair draped over his face as a barely clothed stripper serviced him, her hands sensually roaming her body while he watched her intently.
I immediately got on my feet, grabbing my purse from the table as I began to make my way toward the VIP room, butthen the buzzing of my phone in my hands momentarily tore my attention.
I thought to ignore its persistence, but it kept buzzing, almost like a warning I couldn’t set aside. And so, tearing my gaze off my target, I looked down at my phone, my eyes widening when I saw who was calling.
Dad.
Dad hardly ever called unless he deemed it very important. He was a man of many words, but he preferred texting whenever he felt like checking up on me. And even more, he was supposed to be back at our house in Chicago.
Why is he calling?
Amid the bodies pressing around me and flailing their arms in the air, a cold chill ran through my body like electricity.
Something was off, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Biting my lip and now forgetting my prize, I headed for the club’s terrace, away from the blasting music in the background, as I swiped to answer Dad’s call.
“Hey, Dad, how’s it going back home?” I asked softly, my eyes drifting over the evening sky as stars spread across it, shimmering as darkness slowly settled in.
“I’m not home, Arlette.” Dad’s tone held an urgency that made my heart tighten uncomfortably. And to complicate things further, he added, “I’m at the Kamarov mansion. I met with the Bratva.”
My breath suddenly caught in my throat at his revelation.
Why them?
I thought we’d cut all ties with them when my engagement with their Pakhan, Matvey Kamarov, had been broken off.
So why was he still lumping himself in with them?
“Look,” he began, sighing as voices conversing in Russian echoed in the background, “I have something very important to tell you.”
