Page 15 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

I take my time getting ready for the ball, letting the ritual soothe my nerves. The estate’s guest quarters are unusually quiet, the usual bustle of staff replaced by a hush that feels almost reverent.

I drape the black satin dress across the bed, running my fingers over the smooth fabric. It’s not a showstopper, but it fits me perfectly, hugging my waist and hips, skimming over my thighs. Sophisticated, understated, bold enough to feel like armor.

I don’t wear it for Adrian. That’s what I tell myself, again and again. I wear it because I want to feel strong, unshakable, impossible to ignore.

Still, I know he’ll be there. I can picture him already, immaculate in a tailored suit, Yelena poised at his side, the two of them playing Bratva royalty for the benefit of the room.

I roll my eyes as I line my lips with the deepest red I own, the color making my mouth look more dangerous than soft. Let them both watch me tonight. Let them wonder.

My hair takes longer, but I leave it loose, curls defined and glossy, spilling over my shoulders. I slip on the simple diamond studs Eli gave me for graduation, the only jewelry I can bear.

I smooth the dress one last time, square my shoulders, and force a slow, steady breath. Tonight, I am not background noise.

Tonight, I will be seen.

The ballroom is already alive when I arrive, all glittering chandeliers, polished marble, and an undercurrent of danger dressed in diamonds.

The crowd is dazzling—men and women who know exactly how to hold a room, every movement choreographed, every smile sharpened by secrets.

The air hums with wealth, with old grudges, with the electricity of deals and threats yet to be spoken.

A familiar voice calls my name, cutting through the chaos.

“Talia!” I turn to see Dmitri from logistics, a young man with a crooked grin and a knack for making the most tedious tasks sound like adventures.

He wears a classic tux, hair slicked back, the faintest hint of cologne clinging to his collar.

“Look at you,” he says, eyes wide with genuine appreciation. “If you get any more glamorous, you’ll put the rest of us out of business.”

I laugh, feeling a flicker of real pleasure at the compliment. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Dmitri.”

He offers his arm, and I take it, letting him guide me into the heart of the ballroom. Why not? Tonight, I want to be a part of the spectacle. I want to enjoy this. At least the parts that aren’t soaked in danger and suspicion.

It doesn’t take long for me to spot Adrian across the room, as if I’m tuned to some private frequency that vibrates when he’s near. He’s dressed in black, classic and severe, the crisp line of his jaw made even sharper by the tension in his posture.

Yelena is there, radiant in red, her hand resting possessively on his arm. She plays her part perfectly, laughing at something a family elder says, but Adrian isn’t paying attention to her.

His eyes are locked on me.

Even across the distance, his gaze is unmistakable: cold, assessing, but so intense it makes my skin prickle.

I meet his stare and hold it, letting my lips curve into a slow, deliberate smile.

I don’t look away. The air between us sparks, electric and dangerous.

I can feel Yelena watching too, her expression gone brittle at the edges.

Perfect. Let them both watch me.

Dmitri steers me toward the edge of the dance floor as the orchestra swells, couples spinning in elegant circles. “Care to dance?” he asks, his voice shy but hopeful.

I glance at Adrian again, then back to Dmitri. “I’d love to.”

The music wraps around us, sweet and dizzying. Dmitri’s hand settles at my waist, his steps careful and practiced. He’s not Adrian. There’s no dark pull, no threat humming beneath the surface, but I’m grateful for his kindness, for the normalcy of his touch.

“So,” Dmitri says as we move together, “how does it feel to be the best-dressed woman in the room?”

I laugh, spinning away and then back. “Flattering, and a little dangerous.”

He grins. “That’s how you know you’re doing it right.”

As we dance, I let myself relax for the first time in weeks. I feel the weight of Adrian’s stare, heavy as a hand on my skin. I imagine what he’s thinking, what he’d say if he were the one holding me. I force myself not to care.

Every time Dmitri’s hand slides a little higher, every time I tip my head back and laugh, I feel the air thicken. I know I am being watched. I know I am being claimed in ways that are silent but absolute.

Dmitri twirls me, and I catch a glimpse of Adrian at the edge of the crowd, jaw clenched, eyes burning with something too complex to name. Jealousy. Hunger. Fury. Maybe all three.

Yelena’s grip tightens on his arm, her face frozen in a smile meant to kill.

For the rest of the song, I let myself be swept along. I let the room see me. I let Adrian see me. I am a storm in black satin, lips painted with fire, laughing in the face of every danger that wants to cage me.

Tonight, I am not afraid of what I want. Tonight, I want to be wanted. I want him to burn.

The orchestra’s melody swells, spilling golden notes across the crowded ballroom. I let myself lean into the music, following Dmitri’s lead as he spins me through a waltz.

My laughter comes easy—too easy, maybe—but I want to be seen, want to be remembered as more than a shadow at the edge of the room.

I flirt, I tease, I rest my hand on Dmitri’s chest as we pivot through a turn, feeling the steady beat of his heart through his starched shirt.

No matter how many steps I take, I cannot outrun the burn of Adrian’s gaze.

Even when I don’t look, I feel it, sharp and constant, trailing over my bare shoulders and down the line of my back.

It’s possessive and territorial, a warning and a promise all at once.

Each time Dmitri’s hand brushes my hip, the heat of it is almost overwhelming.

Not because of the touch, but because I know Adrian is watching.

Then, suddenly, Adrian is gone. I catch a glimpse of him near the bar, head bent in conversation with Miroslav, their faces grave in the lamplight.

Dmitri keeps the dance going, oblivious to the storm building at the edges of the room.

I try to breathe through the mounting tension, but my smile grows brittle.

When the song ends, Dmitri bows with a flourish. Before I can thank him, Miroslav is at my side, his words as clipped and cold as the touch on my arm.

“He wants to talk to you.” No question, no pretense. The command is clear.

I let myself be guided through the press of bodies, each step tightening the knot in my chest. Adrian stands at the very center of the room, not waiting, not hiding.

When I reach him, he reaches out and catches me by the waist, pulling me flush against his side. The crowd ripples in response—eyes widening, conversations dropping into stunned silence.

I feel everyone watching, feel the weight of judgment and curiosity prickling against my skin. Yelena stands near the head table, red dress vivid as blood, her eyes drilling holes into me.

My breath catches, not from the intimacy of the hold, but from the boldness of it. This is no subtle claim, no secret game in the shadows. This is Adrian Sharov, king of the wolves, staking everything in front of his pack.

Someone near us—a distant cousin, maybe, or a long-time lieutenant—laughs in disbelief. “What’s this, Adrian?” he calls out, voice edged with amusement and warning both.

Adrian doesn’t release me. He raises his glass high, voice carrying clear across the hush.

“Yelena and I have ended our engagement,” he says, casual as if announcing the weather. His grip tightens at my waist. “I will be marrying this one instead.”

The ballroom freezes.

For a moment, there is nothing but stunned silence, the collective shock ringing louder than the music ever could. Then the room erupts in gasps and whispered curses, a few laughs of disbelief, the sharp clatter of a dropped glass.

Yelena’s face drains of color, her red lips curling into a snarl. For a moment I think she might lunge at us. Then she turns on her heel and storms out, the doors swinging behind her with a thunderous crash.

I watch her go, my heart pounding in my throat. Around us, the buzz of conversation grows, people twisting in their seats to catch a better glimpse, voices rising in incredulous speculation. I don’t feel victorious.

There is no thrill in this. I feel hunted. Trapped. Adrian keeps his hand firm on my waist, anchoring me to his side as the room’s attention sharpens to a blade.

He bends his head to murmur in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “Smile,” he says quietly, the command gentle but absolute. “They’ll be waiting for you to crack.”

I try. I try to summon a smirk, a victorious little curve of my lips, but all I can manage is a strained imitation. My cheeks feel numb, my jaw locked. All I can think is: What have you done? What have I done?

Toasts begin to ring out. They’re forced at first, then louder as the shock gives way to spectacle. Champagne glasses lift, old men offer clipped congratulations, women murmur approval or feigned delight. Every word is a test, every glance a calculation.

I want to shrink away, but Adrian’s grip tightens, holding me steady, refusing to let me retreat.

I force myself to look up at him, searching for some explanation in his eyes.

He meets my gaze, impassive and cold, the mask of command back in place.

Beneath it I see the spark of something wild—reckless, maybe even desperate.

I wonder if he regrets it, if this was a move made out of anger or possession, or something darker still.