Page 53 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

Adrian doesn’t move from where he stands by the door. His presence fills the entire room, no matter how far he is. His jaw ticks once. “Open it.”

The command in his tone slams into me like a slap. Still, I reach out and peel back the lid. Inside, nestled in layers of soft black tissue, is a dress—deep crimson silk, delicate, almost liquid under my fingers. It’s strapless, sleek, the kind of thing you’d see on a red carpet or in a dream. I trace the fabric slowly, almost unwillingly. It’s so beautiful it hurts to look at.

I glance up. “What’s this for?”

His gaze doesn’t soften. “I planned a date.”

I blink. “A date?”

He nods once, as if that settles it. “Yes.”

My chest tightens. I laugh—but there’s no humor in it. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“I never joke.”

“Of course you don’t.” I snap the box shut with a loud thud. “Well, I’m not going.”

His face doesn’t change, but the room gets heavier somehow.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “You are.”

I rise to my feet. “No. I’m not your puppet, Adrian. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You’re my wife,” he snaps. “You will act like that tonight.”

“And I’m your prisoner,” I spit. “Let’s not forget that.”

He moves. A slow, deliberate step forward. Then another. His eyes never leave mine, and for a second, I think he might grab me, drag me, and force me into that dress himself.

“Put on the damn dress.”

“No.”

His voice drops, smooth and deadly.

“Wear it,” he says. “Or I’ll put it on you myself.”

I stiffen, my breath hitching. There’s no room for misinterpretation. He means every word.

“Fine,” I hiss, snatching the box off the bed.

I storm into the bathroom and shut the door behind me with more force than necessary. The mirror greets me with a reflection I barely recognize—hair a mess, eyes wide with fury, jaw tight with defiance. I drop the box onto the counter and stare at it like it personally offended me.

I lift the dress out slowly, the fabric spilling through my hands like water. It’s annoyingly perfect—elegant, expensive, probably custom. Everything I hate right now.

I glance toward the cabinet under the sink, remembering the pair of scissors I saw tucked inside earlier. My fingers twitch.

I could cut it. Just slice straight through the silk and watch this blood-red thing bleed into useless scraps. I’d love to see the look on his face when I walk out in jeans instead.

But….

I sigh, gripping the edge of the counter. The dress is gorgeous. Ruining it would feel like murder. Such a waste.

I’m still contemplating this when Adrian’s voice calls from outside the bathroom door. “Have you put the dress on yet?”

I roll my eyes so hard I nearly see the back of my skull. I hiss under my breath, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. I stare at the damn box sitting on the marble counter. The crimson dress inside is taunting me—rich silk, tailored lines, and a shimmer that says it costs more than my entire closet. I cross my arms. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for any of this.

And yet…my fingers brush over the fabric.