Page 11 of Bratva Bride
"Father." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I don't—I'm not prepared. I don't know the protocol."
He raised one eyebrow. Such a small gesture, but I'd learned to read his micro-expressions like other people read books. That particular eyebrow meant: you're wasting my time with obvious lies.
"I'll embarrass you," I tried again. "The other families don't know me. I've never been presented formally. Showing up now, without context—"
"You'll sit. You'll be silent. You'll smile when spoken to." Each sentence fell like a gavel.
"My analysis," I said desperately. "I haven't finished—there are three more pages on the Volkov positions. You said thirty pages minimum. I'm only at twenty-eight. You need this information before the meeting—"
"Email it to me in twenty minutes. Whatever you have."
"But the accuracy—you said accuracy was everything. I need more time to verify the probability calculations. To cross-reference the intelligence. To—"
"Twenty minutes. Then get dressed."
He turned to leave.
"Father." The word cracked in my throat. "Please. The analysis is complex. If I rush it, if I make mistakes, it could affect your negotiations. Give me another hour. Let me finish it properly. Then—"
He paused in the doorway but didn't turn around. "Anya. This is important." His voice carried the particular tone that meant the conversation was over. "Don't disappoint me."
The door closed. The lock clicked—electronic, unpickable, controlled from the security office downstairs. I heard it engage with the specific whir that meant it wouldn't open again until someone with the code released it. Usually that didn't matter. I had nowhere to go anyway.
Today it meant everything.
I stared at the closed door. Calculated probabilities with a mind that wouldn't stop running scenarios even when they all led to the same conclusion.
Option 1: Refuse to go. Probability of success: 0%. He'd have the guards carry me to the car. I'd arrive at the Council meeting looking hysteric, reinforcing whatever narrative he'd already crafted about my anxiety making me "difficult."
Option 2: Go to the meeting and refuse the marriage. Probability of success: 0%. Bratva daughters didn't refuse. They were traded, not asked. My consent was irrelevant.
Option 3: Try to escape before we left. The go-bag was twelve feet away in the air vent. But the door was locked. The windows were reinforced glass with sensors. Even if I could get out of this room, there were seventeen guards between here and the maintenance gate.
Option 4: Create a medical emergency. I could induce a severe panic attack, hyperventilate until I passed out. But my father had seen my panic attacks before. He'd load me in the car unconscious if necessary.
The truth was, I had no options at all.
Thereddressfitperfectly. Of course it did. The neckline was modest—bratva wives didn't display flesh to anyone but their husbands—but the cut was calculated to show exactly what was being offered. Young. Healthy. Viable for breeding.
Was I being offered? Was that what was happening?
My body? My life? My virginity?
I stood before my mirror, watching my hands shake as they worked the zipper. The woman in the reflection looked like a stranger. Looked like someone who'd given up. Dark hair that needed to be styled instead of hidden in a bun. Pale skin thathadn't seen enough sun because I'd lived my entire life behind glass.
My fingers fumbled with the braiding. French braid, the kind my mother had taught me before her heart gave out when I was eight. She'd stood behind me at this same mirror, her fingers gentle in my hair, humming something in Russian I could never quite remember.
I wondered if she'd stood in front of a mirror like this once, preparing herself to be traded to my father. If she'd calculated her own escape routes and found them all blocked. If she'd pressed her fingernails into her palms to keep from screaming, just like her daughter did now.
The braid was crooked. I undid it, started over. My hands steadier the second time. Muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed. Three strands, over and under, pulling tight enough to hurt. The pain helped. Gave me something to focus on besides the bus to Montreal that would leave without Emma Graves.
Makeup next. I wasn't skilled at it—had never been allowed to practice, never had anywhere to go that required it. Foundation to cover the shadows under my eyes from three years of bad sleep. Concealer over the place on my hand where I'd bitten down hard enough to break skin. Lipstick in a shade called "Russian Red" that someone in marketing probably thought was clever.
Behind me, through the bedroom window, I could see the maintenance gate. Through it, the path I'd memorized so completely I could navigate it with my eyes closed.
Now, the path was closed.
The intercom crackled. "Car is ready."
