Page 24 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
And I don’t look back.
Chapter 5 – Jennie
Somewhere outside, I can hear live music.
It’s faint, but it floats up through the open window like a reminder that something is happening—something I’m supposed to be excited about. But I’m not.
I stand at the edge of the window, arms wrapped around myself as I stare down into the garden below. It’s all lanterns, champagne tables, and expensive florals. White roses, I think. Classical instruments tuning under a silk-draped gazebo.
It looks like a fairy tale.
But I feel like a prisoner in a really pretty cage.
Tears blur my vision, but I blink them back. I won’t ruin the makeup they just spent nearly two hours applying.
The hair stylists, makeup artists, and nail techs all left about fifteen minutes ago, chattering and laughing like they hadn’t just dolled up a girl being forced into a mafia marriage.
I’m wearing the dress Adrian sent me this morning—black velvet, strapless, with delicate lace embroidery over the bodice. It hugs my curves and flows all the way to the floor in heavy, liquid folds that shimmer when I move. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn.
And the most suffocating.
It’s not white. But then again, this isn’t that kind of wedding. There’s no love in my heart today. Just dread. Just rage. Just the sick ache of knowing I’ve sold myself to the devil to keep my brother alive.
I turn from the window and face the full-length mirror. My breath catches in my throat.
I look…breathtaking.
My hair is pinned in soft waves, my lips painted a deep wine-red, and the way the velvet shapes my body—it almost tricks me into thinking I’m walking into a dream.
But I’m not. This is a nightmare with a pretty filter over it.
This dress fits like it was made for me, like it had been tailored to my exact measurements.
And knowing Adrian Rusnak…it probably was.
My stomach twists.
He moved me out of my dingy little apartment last night. His men showed up just after midnight. Zalar was the one who came in to help me pack, silent but respectful, while I tried not to cry in front of him. They brought me here—to this massive estate with its marble floors, endless hallways, and cold silence.
This room is bigger than my entire apartment.
The bed is huge. The view is gorgeous. But the door locks from the outside.
Even today—on my wedding day—I’m locked in.
I don’t know if it’s for security or control. Or both. But it doesn’t matter.
I feel trapped.
Caged in lace and velvet.
Even the thought of Logan walking free today—alive, safe—can’t lift the weight sitting on my chest. I should be relieved. But the cost of his freedom feels like a chain around my own neck.
I glance down at my hands. They’re shaking.
God.
How did I get here?
