Page 19 of The Russian's Forced Bride
“I can’t believe you’re actually getting married. And before me, too,” Eleanor joked with a pout.
She had been with me through everything—from choosing my dress to this very moment—as she stood in a backless indigo gown that highlighted her sun-kissed skin. She had already done her makeup and styled her brunette hair just moments before I did.
And I envied the fact that, unlike Lara and me, she wasn’t tangled with the Bratva in any way.
“Trust me,” I glanced her way briefly, “you don’t want this.”
The smile on her face faded at my words, and it seemed like she wanted to comfort me somehow, but she simply sighed and continued helping the makeup artist add some blush to my face before heading back to settle in the recliner across from my room at Father’s mansion, where we currently were.
The makeup artist’s touch was gentle, reminding me of my mother. I didn’t have many memories of her, seeing as she died whilst I was a child, at about six. And though I didn’t remember much, I knew she was a soft and gentle soul. Sometimes, in my dreams, I could feel her touch, and it always filled me with warmth.
A warmth I so desperately needed, growing the longer I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
Tears welled in my eyes at the thought of her. There were hardly any pictures of her at Father’s mansion because he made sure to destroy every last one. I never even got the chance to mourn her.
And now I was getting married by force, with no one by my side to tell me I had a choice. Eleanor did her best, but it just wasn’t enough.
Alice never cared. She only saw herself as an accessory anyway.
Jacob, on the other hand, hadn’t been too thrilled to hear his sister was marrying one of the Bratva men, but he knew better than to cross them. We all knew better than that.
A knock on the door echoed through the room just as the stylist zipped up my heels. Eleanor, who had been busy typing away at her phone, stood up cautiously to answer the door.
Agnes peeked into the room, her gaze shy as she muttered something into Eleanor’s ear, then Eleanor turned to look at me, confusion on her face.
“She says someone claiming to be your half-brother is here,” Eleanor told me, scratching her head, and her confusion mirrored mine perfectly.
My half-brother? The only brother I had ever known was Jacob, and because of his busy schedule, he had already told me he would be flying in late for my wedding.
I had no idea what to say or think, so I shrugged. “Let him in, I guess.”
Eleanor whispered my reply to the staff, and after waiting in anticipation for whoever was playing a silly trick on me on my wedding day, the door swung open wider, revealing a man.
He was tall and lean with muscles, sporting olive skin partly covered by a black hoodie and ripped jeans. He looked afew years younger than me—probably twenty or even younger. Unlike me, his hair was dark brown, a bit like how Father’s was at that age.
But that was it. He looked nothing like Father, and nothing like my mother either, because I got my ginger hair and features from her.
“Hi, sis.” The man waved, a flashy grin on his face.
The stylist and makeup artist working on me exchanged a glance. It was a look that showed they sensed drama was approaching, and it nearly made me groan aloud at how quickly my life had started to change ever since Father’s death.
The man moved closer, the sound of his sneakers shuffling on the carpeted floor of the room.
Upon closer inspection, he looked quite American, with a touch of Spanish influence in his features. His eyebrows were thick and sharply defined, and his face was perfectly sculpted—a contrast to my delicate, soft features.
We didn’t look anything alike.
“You really are gorgeous, Arlette. Much prettier than I heard,” the man praised, but I wasn’t buying all that friendliness. Alice was the same way the first time we met, and now she was a cold stepmother who barely even knew I existed.
“Who are you? And what makes you think we’re related?” I asked, straight to the point.
The old me would’ve indulged him with a joke or a smile. But I was getting tired of being pretentious.
The man feigned hurt as he held his chest. “Oof, Arlette. That hurt. I know we’re strangers now, but I promise you’re gonna love me.”
I raised a brow, still waiting for a proper introduction, and then he finally gave me one.
“Brandon Orozco,” he said, extending his hand toward me. I stared at his tanned olive skin before carefully taking itinto mine. His grip was gentle, warm, and surprisingly, it felt comfortable giving him a handshake.
