Page 27 of Bratva Bidder

I reach for the door handle. “Smile pretty for the cameras,” I say quietly.

And then I step out, ready to start the show.

7

NADYA

The venue is beautiful.

Of course it is.

The top floor of the hotel has been cleared and transformed into an open-air rooftop ceremony space, framed by glass barriers and sleek modern lights that glow softly against the darkening sky. A scattering of white flowers lines the edges, understated and sophisticated, and the cool evening air smells faintly of jasmine and expensive champagne.

It’s everything most people would kill for.

And I hate every second of it.

I walk slowly beside Konstantin, keeping my hands folded tightly in front of me, my face calm even though every step feels like a funeral march. The guests gathered under the wide-open sky turn to watch us, eyes assessing, greedy. A mix of Bratva power players, businessmen, and the occasional desperate hanger-on who bought a ticket to my misery.

When I was younger—before everything went sideways—I pictured something small. Intimate. A garden maybe, flowers everywhere, just a few people I trusted standing nearby. Nothing grand, nothing flashy. Something real.

But real was a fantasy I stopped believing in a long time ago.

Especially when I found out I was pregnant and completely alone.

For the longest time, when I still lived across the ocean, I let myself believe that the man I’d spent that one stolen night with might have been different. That maybe—if I could find him, if I could tell him—he would care. He’d want to know.

I even dreamed about it once—me, showing up somewhere with a ring on my finger, a quiet little ceremony where he pulled me close and promised me I wasn’t alone anymore.

Back then, I only knew him by the name he gave me—Mikhail.

JustMikhail.

It wasn’t until after I came to America, after the twins were born, after I built a fragile new life for us, that I stumbled across his real identity by accident.

Konstantin Buryakov. The bastard son of one of the most powerful and blood-soaked Bratva families in the world.

When I pieced it together, I didn’t even think about reaching out. I didn’t want my kids dragged into this. I wouldn’t let them grow up shadowed by the same darkness that hung around men like him.

The irony is almost laughable, as I stand here in a white dress, preparing to sign away my freedom to the very man I spent yearsrunning from. The man who never even knew he left something behind.

The table is set at the far edge of the rooftop, white linen draped over it, two polished chairs pulled up neatly on either side. A civil official in a dark suit stands beside it, a leather folder tucked under his arm, his expression detached and professional.

Konstantin is already standing next to me, close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough that when the breeze stirs the hem of my dress, it brushes against his leg. He hasn’t spoken since we stepped out of the car. He hasn’t needed to.

His presence says everything.

I’m not getting out of this. Not tonight.

Not ever.

The official clears his throat, motioning for us to sit.

I grip the fabric of my dress, forcing my face into something neutral, something cold, and move toward the chair.

Konstantin moves too, his hand coming to the small of my back, guiding me with a firm pressure that makes my skin jump.

I whip my head toward him, glaring, but he only smirks, the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth, as if daring me to say something here in front of everyone.