Page 42 of Sweet Obsession
“I’ll find a way to protect you,” I whispered. “I swear it.”
Another pause.
“You sound different,” she said softly.
“Different how?”
“Older. Sadder.”
I closed my eyes. “I have to go, Gabby.”
The line clicked dead.
I stayed there for a long time after, clutching the receiver, my heart aching in a way no enemy could inflict.
I retired to bed with a heavy heart. I hated this goddamn place. No friends, no family. I might as well just die of loneliness before these twelve months would be over.
The following morning, in my room, Sofia laid out something that I wouldn’t dare call a dress.
It was armor. Not for beauty or comfort, but for survival.
She made me wear it. A reminder of how little my opinion mattered. Midnight black. Satin and lace. Tight at the waist, with a slit up the thigh that was practically criminal.
The kind of dress that whispered wealth, and promised violence in the same breath. Perfect for a Bratva princess. Perfect for a girl pretending to be in love with a man who terrified her.
I stood before the full-length mirror, smoothing the fabric over my hips, forcing myself not to flinch when Sofia clipped an elegant black diamond pendant around my neck.
“You are ready, madam,” she said stiffly.
Ready. If only they knew.
The door creaked open, the heavy sound of it scraping against the floor slicing through the silence.
Misha stood in the doorway, his presence like a storm crashing into the room. He was dressed in a black tailored suit that clung to his frame, sharp, lethal, every inch of him demanding attention.
He scanned me once. Briefly. No reaction. No approval. No smile. Just a cold, dismissive nod.
“We leave in five,” he said, his voice a quiet command that sent a shiver down my spine.
Then, without another word, he turned, disappearing down the hall as if I didn’t even exist. Because a man like Misha Petrov didn’t wait for anyone. Not even the woman he was about to parade around as his wife.
The car ride was suffocating in its silence. The snowy streets outside blurred by the dark windows as we made our way to the estate. Misha sat beside me, his presence pressing against me like an invisible weight. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t acknowledge me at all.
He didn’t ask if I was nervous. He didn’t offer a hand, a word, or even a smile.
Nothing.
Just the slow, steady clench of his jaw as he stared ahead, the tension in his body almost palpable. As if the weight of this night was a burden he carried alone.
I shifted in my seat, restless under the suffocating silence. “You’re really good at this,” I muttered, more to myself than him.
“At what?” His voice was low, rough, like he had better things to do than entertain me.
“At pretending I don’t exist.”
For a heartbeat, I thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then, in that soft, lethal tone of his, he said, “It’s not pretend.” The words hit harder than they should have. Because it wasn’t personal. It was survival. I was just another asset.Another weapon to wield. And I would play my part, even if it cost me my soul.
