Page 28 of Bratva Bidder

Bastard.

I sit down hard in the chair, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck, and he lowers himself into the seat beside me with all the lazy grace of a man who owns everything in his reach—including me.

The official lays out the documents in front of us, a pen placed neatly above each.

The moment the ceremony ends, Konstantin steps away without a word.

I stand alone, feeling the weight of too many stares, too many whispers sliding through the warm evening air. I clutch the small bag someone shoved into my hands earlier, my fingers tightening around it like it’s a lifeline.

The rooftop is crowded now. Waiters move quietly between the groups, offering champagne and small plates, but the real business of the evening is the conversations—the alliances forming, the silent calculations being made.

A few people approach me first.

A woman in a red dress, all smiles, congratulates me with the kind of polished venom that makes it clear she’s already ranking me lower than dirt.

Two older men shake my hand like they’re buying livestock, their eyes lingering too long, their compliments coated in grease.

I smile politely, say the right things, and move on before I gag.

I don’t belong here, and they know it.

I hover near the edge of the terrace, feigning interest in the view, doing my best to avoid the steady stream of strangers offering brittle congratulations and plastic smiles.

I turn, ready to retreat toward the far end of the terrace where it’s quieter, when a woman steps into my path.

She’s tall, statuesque, wearing a floor-length red gown that clings to her surgically perfect body. Diamonds glitter at herneck and ears. Her blonde hair is pinned back so tightly it looks painful.

Two younger men flank her—both dark haired, both good-looking, though in very different ways. One of them, slightly taller and broader, grips a half-empty champagne glass with a lazy, careless smile.

“Well,” the woman says, her voice dripping with polished amusement, “aren’t you a pretty addition.”

I stiffen slightly, offering a cautious smile. “Thank you,” I say, not quite sure how to respond.

The woman steps closer, extending a manicured hand. “Ludmila,” she says. “And these are my sons—Roman and Alexei.”

I blink, trying to process the introduction, glancing between the two young men and then back at her.

Roman—the one with the sloppy grin—gives me an exaggerated bow. Alexei simply nods, more reserved.

“I don’t think Konstantin told her about us,” Alexei says with a small smile.

Ludmila narrows her eyes at her son before turning to me.

“I’m sorry…” I say, not knowing what else to say.

“I’m his stepmother, Dmitry’s wife,” Ludmila finally says as if she’s tired of me already.

“Welcome to the family, sister-in-law,” Alexei says, his words sounding genuine. I like this one.

“So you’re the prize,” Roman says, smiling wide enough to show the edges of his teeth. “Not bad, considering the bastard had to pay to find a wife.”

The insult is tossed out casually, but it slices all the same.

I don’t like Konstantin. I don’t trust him. But hearing someone else spit on him like that—even his own blood—makes my chest tighten with something ugly.

I smile sweetly, tilting my head. “At least he can afford what he wants,” I say coolly.

Roman’s grin drops instantly, his face flushing an ugly red.