Page 24 of Bratva Bride
Because I’m not here to win a petty spat over tone or timing. I’m here for Mila. I’m here for Nikolai. I’m here because Arman was right—these women hear things, even if they pretend not to understand them.
So I breathe, just once, and let my lips twitch into something resembling humor. “You’re right,” I say, voice smooth. “Next time I’ll host it in a bunker and serve cocktails in gas masks. That should do wonders for the mood.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Dasha lets out a startled laugh. Kira follows, nearly choking on her drink. Even the ones who don’t laugh smile behind their cups.
I look down, adjusting the hem of my dress, as if the fabric will hide the misstep. The laughter fades. The women look around, suddenly aware of the tension, trying to decide who to side with.
I should fix it. Say something polite, laugh at myself.
But I don’t. Pride and habit keep my mouth shut.
Instead, I look past them, toward the other end of the park.
Konstantin is standing with a few dads from Mila’s school. I recognize them from pick-up and drop-off. The guy in the light blue polo teaches robotics. Another one runs a design firm downtown. The third is always talking about hiking, even though I’ve never seen a speck of dirt on his sneakers.
They’re talking to Konstantin like he’s one of them. Laughing, gesturing with their drinks. One of them claps him on the shoulder. Konstantin—my Konstantin—cracks a smile and says something that makes them roar with laughter. He folds his arms, easy and relaxed, and takes another sip of whatever’s in his cup.
He fits. He always does. Even now, even here, in a park full of plastic streamers and balloon animals, he finds a way to blend in. To own the space.
And me?
I’m stuck here, sweating through my blouse.
Konstantin glances up just then. His gaze finds mine through the crowd, across the bounce house and the cake table, and for a moment the air stills between us. He doesn’t smile, not really, but there’s something in his eyes—something unreadable.
He sees me. Watches me.
Then one of the men says something else, and Konstantin turns back to them, offering a comment that earns another round of laughter. They’re hanging on his words like he’s the most interesting person they’ve met all week.
And maybe he is.
I sit back in my chair again, sipping the drink that’s gone too warm to enjoy.
So he’s fitting in.
Good for him.
Someone should.
“It’s time to cut the cake,” Konstantin calls out, his voice carrying across the park with the kind of easy confidence that draws attention without trying. He’s still surrounded by the dads, but he steps away as he speaks, his eyes already on me.
I don’t move right away. I’m not sure I can. The knot in my stomach eases just slightly at the sound of his voice, but my spine is still rigid from holding in every retort I wanted to throw at Tatiana.
Konstantin says it again, louder this time, and this time it’s accompanied by a small gesture—a lift of his hand, beckoning. The kids are already gathering, some of them running ahead of their parents toward the picnic table where the cake is set up, its pastel frosting slightly melted in the sun.
Did he see how uncomfortable I was?
Did he call for the cake just to give me a way out?
It wouldn’t be unlike him. He’s many things, but oblivious has never been one of them.
I make my way across the lawn toward the cake table, weaving between clusters of kids and parents. The sun is starting to dip, casting warm gold across the park and throwing long shadows behind the rows of balloons fluttering in the breeze. Mila is already there, beaming, her cheeks stained with sugar and joy. She bounces on her toes as Konstantin crouches to whisper something to her, probably reminding her to wait before jabbing her fingers into the frosting.
I’m almost there when I hear heels click lightly behind me.
“Don’t listen to Tatiana,” a voice says just above my shoulder. I turn to see Kira catching up, her expression softened. “She can be…well, she can be a lot.”
I raise an eyebrow, but I don’t stop walking. “She seems to enjoy the sound of her own voice.”
