Page 10 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)

The ballroom opens before me in a flood of gold and reflection—candlelight flickering from mirrored walls, chandeliers dripping with crystal, the floor gleaming like it’s never seen dirt. Everything is immaculate. Purposefully so. Nothing here is accidental.

I wear black. Sleek. Tasteful. The neckline modest, but the thigh-high slit makes me feel exposed in ways I hadn’t anticipated. It looked elegant in the mirror. Now it feels like bait.

The room is full. Waitstaff float past with silent precision. Voices murmur across the expanse, trailing laughter and politics like perfume. I take one step forward and feel the weight of the room shift. Not toward me entirely—but enough.

My eyes meet an elderly woman’s. She stands near the far end of the room, surrounded by men who make space for her like instinct. Her silver hair is swept back, lips painted with surgical precision. Her eyes land on me without blinking.

Cool. Unreadable. Judgment rolls off her like heat.

I look away.

Every step toward the table feels rehearsed. I smooth my hand along the side of my dress, though it doesn’t need adjusting. I know how to carry myself. I’ve walked into crowded rooms before. But tonight, the air feels thinner. My skin prickles with the sense of being watched—dissected, measured.

Too young. Too curvy. Too exposed.

I reach the table, and the chair beside Maxim is pulled out for me by a man in black. I thank him softly and sit, spine straight, napkin draped neatly in my lap. My palm sticks against the fabric.

Maxim doesn’t look at me, not right away.

His presence is grounding—solid, inescapable—but it presses against my ribs, too heavy. Every inch of him feels controlled, as if he’s holding a leash I can’t see. His hand rests on the table, ring catching the light. Mine stay folded around my napkin, beneath the edge of the cloth.

Around us, the table buzzes. Conversations overlap: trade routes, offshore accounts, the recent shift in loyalty from some family I’ve only heard mentioned in whispers. Deals made over oysters and fine wine, spoken with the ease of people who never have to wonder if they belong here.

I keep my smile fixed, small and polite. Inoffensive. Decorative.

Across the table, the old woman—Darya, his mother—says something to the man on her left. She doesn’t look at me, but I feel her voice slide toward my direction like smoke curling under a door.

She hasn’t spoken to me, not once, but I feel her disdain with every sip of her drink. Every word she doesn’t say is louder than the ones she might.

Glasses clink in a ripple of ceremony, silver ringing against crystal. One of the older men, his face like aged leather, stands with the slow gravity of someone who’s used to being heard.

“To legacy,” the man says, his accent thick. “To bloodlines that hold, to alliances that last longer than memory.”

The room lifts their glasses. I follow, fingers wrapped around the stem of mine. The wine inside catches the candlelight: deep red, almost black in the glass.

I raise it to my lips, ready to sip, when Maxim leans in.

His breath brushes the shell of my ear. “The slit’s too high.”

I freeze. The words are low, casual in tone, but the heat they spark is immediate. My pulse jumps. I lower my glass before it touches my mouth and force a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” I murmur.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, I feel his hand slide beneath the tablecloth. Slow. Intentional.

His fingers graze the skin of my thigh—bare where the dress parts at the slit. He doesn’t grope, but his hands slide across my plush thighs.

One firm, measured pull at the fabric, dragging the hem lower inch by inch, until it covers what he’s decided it shouldn’t reveal. The movement is careful. Unhurried. Possessive.

Heat flares along my spine, blooming across my chest and down to where his fingertips linger. I grip my napkin tighter, jaw clenched, heart hammering. My instinct is to slap his hand away, to glare, to make a scene.

My body betrays me. A shiver travels through me, subtle but real.

His face remains composed, the mask of civility never slipping. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge what he’s done.

To anyone watching, he’s the perfect fiancé—composed, dignified, unbothered.

I set my glass down carefully, afraid my fingers might betray the tremble building in them. The wine remains untouched. My appetite vanishes under the weight of his hand and the slow, creeping truth of what this dinner really is.

A performance. A lesson in belonging.

A reminder, too, that nothing about me—my skin, my voice, my dress—belongs to me alone anymore.

I try to focus. I nod when someone addresses me, even if I barely catch the thread of their words.

A polite smile forms on instinct, and I let out a soft laugh at what I assume is the end of a joke.

I’ve done this before—sat through dinners with strangers, played the well-mannered daughter of someone important. I know how to perform.

Except, something’s wrong.

A ripple of unease coils low in my stomach. Not nerves. Not embarrassment from Maxim’s hand under the table, though that still lingers on my skin like a brand. This is different. Thicker. Heavier.

I reach for my water, sip it slowly, trying to breathe through the discomfort. It doesn’t help. My mouth is dry. My tongue sticks slightly to the roof of my mouth. My fingers, curled around the glass, feel clammy.

Maybe it’s the lights: too warm, too golden. Or the air: thick with perfume and cigar smoke. Maybe it’s the weight of Darya’s stare, still burning across the table like a silent accusation.

My vision tips slightly. Not much., but just enough to make the edge of the chandelier blur.

I blink. Tighten my grip on the table’s edge.

Maxim moves the barest amount. A shift in posture, his head angled the slightest degree. I know he sees it—sees me—but he doesn’t say anything.

The nausea swells, violent and sudden.

I stand too fast. The chair scrapes behind me with a loud screech that splits the lull in conversation. Conversations stutter and taper off. Several heads turn.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, forcing the words past the dryness in my throat. I keep my eyes down, away from the weight of their stares. “I need a moment.”

No one stops me.

I walk—too fast, not fast enough. The room stretches around me, voices resuming behind me in a hushed ripple. I catch the sound of my own heartbeat thudding in my ears.

Down the corridor, my heels hit the polished floor harder than I intend, echoing in the otherwise silent hall. I turn the corner, my steps staggering now.

Everything tilts.

Walls too close. Ceiling too high. My pulse erratic, too fast to be normal.

I make it halfway down the corridor before my hand slams against the wall for balance. I gasp in air. It’s like breathing through wool. The hallway swims in front of me.

I press a hand to my stomach. Sweat beads at the back of my neck, sliding beneath the line of my hair.

This isn’t just heat. Or nerves. I don’t feel right.

The marble wall is cool beneath my palm, but it does nothing to steady the spin in my head. My legs buckle, knees hitting the polished floor with a muted thud. My hand scrapes against the stone as I lean forward, jaw clenched, throat tight.

Then my stomach heaves.

Nothing comes at first: only bile, thin and bitter. The taste burns the back of my tongue, and I gasp, body wracked with tremors. My vision blurs with the effort, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, but another wave hits harder.

I lurch again, and this time it’s not bile.

It’s red.

Bright. Vivid. Streaked through with something dark and wet. I choke on a sob, spit, then gag again as more follows. It splashes against the tile, warm and unmistakable.

The metallic tang coats my tongue. My mouth fills with it, thick and sharp and wrong.

Panic claws at my chest. My hands tremble as I reach out blindly, trying to anchor myself to the wall again, but the strength in my limbs is slipping. My body curls in, instinctive and useless, trying to protect something that’s already unraveling.

My heart pounds too fast. It’s erratic, a drumbeat gone wild. My lungs can’t keep up. I drag in short, stuttering breaths, but nothing sticks. The air slips through my throat without oxygen. My head is too light. My body too heavy.

I wipe at my face, fingers streaked now with a mix of tears and blood and sweat. The cold of the marble floor is seeping into my skin, and still I can’t move.

This isn’t normal. This isn’t heatstroke or nerves or exhaustion.

My thoughts spiral—slipping, fragmented. I try to hold on to a clear one, but everything scatters before I can grasp it. My fingers scrabble against the wall again, missing their mark. My palm hits the floor instead, skidding uselessly.

Then I fall.

My cheek hits the tile, and the cold rushes in all at once. It spreads across my skin, sinking deep into my bones. I try to push up, to lift myself even an inch, but my arms give out beneath me.

The floor tilts. The light dims. The edges of my vision blacken, and the sounds around me—distant music, the faint murmur of voices behind closed doors—fade into a low hum.

The world slips sideways, and still, the only word left in my mouth is his.

“Maxim….”

Barely a whisper, then nothing.