Page 15 of Sold to the Bratva
KATYA
Regret slams into me the moment I open my eyes. It isn’t the hangover, even though my head throbs and my mouth tastes of tequila and mistakes. The remorse is for what happened after the tequila. What felt so easy in the dark barrels back now that daylight has stripped away every excuse.
I let Isaac into my room and complied with his every wish like I couldn’t get enough of him. The heat between us flared even though our skin barely touched. The sound of my name on his lips. The weight of the vibrator in his hand. His smirk. His restraint. God, the restraint.
Isaac never laid a finger on me. He didn’t need to. He seized control anyway. Worst of all, my body liked it. No, it reveled in it. Without my permission I surrendered, craving him, unraveling for him.
I burrow beneath the covers and press my palms to my eyes, groaning. How could I have done that? Of all the men I’ve been with or ever wanted, he ranks dead last. Actually, he doesn’t even make the list.
I’ve fooled around before. I’ve sneaked men into this house while my father was gone, let them kiss me, touch me, taste me. But none of them ever made me feel the way Isaac did and none of them made my body betray me so completely. I came undone beneath a man I absolutely hate, and he didn’t even have to try. He never even broke a sweat.
I grit my teeth. That cocky bastard was so sure of himself. He stayed calm, maddeningly composed, as if he knew exactly how I’d respond, expected it, counted on it. That certainty makes me want to scream.
I should hate him. I do hate him. Yet my body missed the memo, trapping me in a filthy limbo between resentment and arousal, pride and submission. Something has to change. If I can’t win this war by resisting him, I’ll win it by ruining him.
It takes me exactly twenty-seven minutes to unearth the wedding-planner contact sheet in my father’s study. He’s so proud of himself, organizing this wedding like a proper mafia CEO playing house. I picture him bragging to Oleg over cigars and Scotch.
Barf.
I scroll through the names of the florist, caterer, venue coordinator, seamstress, designer, and even music director. Each one was handpicked by my father and Oleg, vetted for discretion and Bratva loyalty. Too bad none of them is prepared for a vindictive bride with a burner phone.
I call each one in turn, adopting a breezy, composed tone.
“Hi. Yes, this is Katya Belova. The wedding has been canceled for personal reasons. No, no need for refunds. The arrangements are no longer necessary. Thank you for your time.”
Some push back, confused and cautious. I silence them with authority and a sprinkle of false kindness.
It takes just under two hours to undo what took a week to build behind my back. My father arranged so much before he even had the consent of the bride and groom.
When the last call ends, I toss the phone into the trash and smile. Isaac Kozlov may think he’s marrying me in a week, but when the guests arrive at an empty venue that contained no food, no flowers, and no bride, he’ll wish he’d never said yes.
I try to leave before my father can corner me in the hallway, but I’m not fast enough.
“Katya,” he calls, his voice heavy with authority.
I freeze at the foot of the stairs, suitcase in hand. He steps out of his office, adjusting his cuff links like he does every other day, but his eyes betray suspicion.
“You’re heading out early,” he says.
“I like to be punctual,” I reply smoothly.
He eyes my small bag. “That’s all you’re bringing?”
“I’m not planning to stay long.”
His jaw ticks. “Katya?—”
“What?” I interrupt. “What words of advice do you have for a happy marriage, Papa?”
His eyes narrow.
“Just remember what your mother would have wanted,” he says at last.
It’s a low blow. He knows it. And I let it land. But I don’t show him the way my chest aches or how I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my expression blank. Instead, I give him a tight smile.
“I won’t do anything impulsive.”
He doesn’t believe me, but it’s the only honest thing I can offer. I’ve spent hours plotting how thoroughly I can destroy this wedding.
