Page 1 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

Chapter 1 – Jennie

The apartment smells like banana bread, vanilla, and impending complaints.

“I swear if that thing doesn’t come out in the next five minutes, I’m going to eat your couch cushions,” Violet groans, stretching dramatically across my thrifted armchair like a dying Victorian heroine.

I grin from the tiny galley kitchen, flicking on the oven light. “Seven minutes left.”

“Seven minutes?” she gasps. “You said five, like, three minutes ago!”

“I rounded down.”

“You’re evil.”

I glance back and see her nose twitching as the scent of caramelizing bananas and vanilla wraps around the room like a warm hug. The banana bread is rising perfectly—crisping at the edges, golden brown on top. My one domestic talent.

“You’ll survive,” I say, wiping my hands on a pink dish towel. “We had breakfast.”

“That was four hours ago. And it was salad.”

“It had grilled chicken in it.”

She scoffs. “One strip, Jennie. One sad little strip.”

I chuckle and return to the living room, sinking into the space beside her on the couch. She kicks her feet up on the coffee table and pulls the blanket over our laps like it’s a sacred ritual. The crime documentary is paused on a still of a suburban house wrapped in yellow tape. I hit play on the remote.

Violet eyes it with exaggerated disgust. “How is this your idea of a good time?”

“You like watching lonely women pine for emotionally unavailable poets.”

“Because that’s romance and artistic tragedy, not blood-splattered walls and dismembered limbs. This stuff is morbid.”

I nudge her with my shoulder. “You’re dramatic.”

“I’m romantic,” she corrects, tugging the blanket higher. “There’s a difference.”

But she doesn’t change the channel. She never does.

We’ve been doing this every Tuesday night for the past year. Crime documentaries for me. Soft whines and cookies for her. It started during a joint elective in criminal psychology—back when we were both trying to keep up with Zoe Monroe’s laser focus. Violet only joined the class because she wrote murder reports as a side gig to earn money. Now Zoe’s off married to the boss of the Rusnak mafia—though we don’t talk about that. We pretend it’s all normal. It’s easier.

I glance over at Violet as she snuggles deeper into the blanket, mumbling about carbs and tragedy. Her brown hair is tied up in a messy ponytail, and her nails are painted yellow with tiny smiley faces. She belongs in a sunbeam, not in the middle of a true crime marathon. But she sticks around anyway. That’s what love looks like in friendship form.

She side-eyes me. “You know what you really need?”

“A boyfriend?”

“No. A hug. A real one. The kind that counts.”

I laugh softly. “You hug me all the time.”

“Yeah, but not the kind that makes your lungs loosen and your spine melt. The kind that smells like aftershave and protection. You know what I mean.”

“You read too many romance books. I feel sorry for you.”

“You need to read a romance book,” she says. “Seems like that’s the only way you’ll experience real romance.”

My smile fades a little. I do know what she means.

My friends hug me all the time. But I can’t remember the last time a man held me like that—strong arms around me,steady breath against my hair, a moment I didn’t want to escape. I’ve never had a real relationship. Not one that lasted past coffee dates and polite kisses at the door.