Page 75 of Bratva Bride
Konstantin stands over Rifat, his fists still clenched, eyes blazing with betrayal and something deeper I can’t name. The hallway is thick with tension, every muscle in his body straining like he’s holding himself back from finishing what he started.
I shove myself between them, my hands trembling as I press my palms against Konstantin’s chest. “Stop it,” I plead, voice shaking. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
He looks down at me, breathing hard, his jaw clenched so tightly I can see the pulse in his neck. “You’re crying in his arms,” hehisses, pain and fury tangled together. “You run from me and this is what I find? My wife with another man.”
Rifat wipes blood from his mouth, jaw set but eyes steady. “It’s not what you think.”
“You have some nerve, Konstantin, accusing me of things I never did,” I snap, wiping tears from my cheeks, my voice shaking with hurt and fury.
He wheels on me, jaw tight, eyes flashing. “I’m not accusing you of anything.”
But the dam inside me bursts. I step closer, anger burning hotter than the ache in my chest. “Really? Then what was that out there? You see me talking to someone I trust, someone who risked his life for me, and you lose your mind. But I’m just supposed to smile while you parade Anya around at every party?”
His face hardens, the line of his mouth drawn tight. “That’s not the same and you know it.” He shakes his head, but the denial is weak, half-hearted. “There’s nothing between me and Anya. She’s Viktor’s sister. This is business, nothing more.”
“Business,” I echo, the word bitter on my tongue. “Is that what you call it? Because to me it looks a lot like betrayal.”
He glares back, fists still clenched, hurt and pride warring behind his eyes. “You’re my wife, Nadya. Don’t forget that.”
Tears threaten again, but I force myself to meet his gaze. “I wish that meant as much to you as it does to me. Do you want to talk about loyalty? Do you want to talk about honesty?” The pain and anger in my voice ricochet down the corridor, the words hanging between us, impossible to take back.
He stares at me, caught off guard, a flash of something raw and wounded passing over his face. For a second, neither of us speaks, both too full of things we never said, both standing in the ruins of everything we once promised.
“Answer me,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Or are only my sins worth punishment in this house?” I swipe at my cheeks, trying to stop the trembling in my voice. “I want to go home,” I whisper, staring at the floor, unable to look at him any longer.
“No,” Konstantin snaps, tone brooking no argument, but his eyes flick to Rifat, finally letting the tension drain from his posture just enough. “You—get out. Now.”
Rifat hesitates, wiping the blood from his mouth, meeting my gaze with worry and silent apology. I give him a small, desperate nod. “Go. Please.”
He hesitates one second longer, glaring daggers at Konstantin, then turns and disappears down the corridor, boots echoing on polished stone. The space between Konstantin and me stretches wide and cold, the weight of everything unspoken pressing down hard.
Konstantin rounds on me, voice rough with demand. “Who the fuck is that?”
I look him dead in the eye, anger simmering. “Find out yourself.”
I shoulder past him, desperate to escape the suffocating corridor. As I round the corner, my steps slow. Anya stands at the end of the hallway, arms folded, her brows drawn in a troubled line.
She bites her lip, her voice almost a whisper. “I never meant to come between you two.”
Her words catch me off guard. For a heartbeat, I can only stare at her, the ache of everything—fear, guilt, suspicion—still burning in my chest.
I keep moving, shoulders set, not sure whether to believe her or not, but too tired to answer. The last thing I see before slipping away is the look in her eyes—remorse, or something like it—and the way she glances over my shoulder, as if afraid of what’s coming next.
22
KONSTANTIN
The ballroom’swarmth has curdled, every gilded surface now a stage for whispers. I can feel eyes on me, heads angled together, mouths moving, the gossip already spreading like fire through dry grass. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what they’re saying. They saw Nadya leave with that man, the same one who dared to put his hands on her right in the middle of my party.
I stand near a marble column, glass in hand, watching the dancers move and the alliances shift. Viktor approaches, moving through the crowd with his usual, easy authority. He stops beside me, silent for a moment, then passes me a phone.
On the screen is a photo of the man from the hallway, unmistakable even out of context.
“His name is Rifat Emir,” Viktor says, voice low and easy. “Former special forces. Moved in and out of a lot of dirty circles. There’s more—my guys picked up this picture just two days ago.” He swipes to another image.
“And that”—he taps the second man—“is Arman Nikolaev. Recognize the name?”
I stare at the photo, feeling a prickle of recognition, but the name means nothing to me. “Should I?”
