Page 28 of Sweet Obsession

I instinctively backed up, but he followed, step for step.

Then his hands slammed against the wall on either side of my head.

Caging me in, towering over me in a way that suffocated me.

I froze, breath caught.

His eyes searched mine—not with cruelty, but something colder.

Possession.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You’re already in my world, malyshka.”

The name rolled off his tongue like a brand—soft, almost tender, but it burned. I didn’t know what it meant. But I knew it wasn’t harmless.

He said it like it belonged to me. Like I belonged to him.

“Play your part,” he said. “Smile. Pretend.”

His voice dropped lower. “And survive.”

He pushed off the wall and stepped back like it cost him effort. His eyes burned—cold and full of something he didn’t name.

I watched him disappear down the hall, pulse still sprinting. Shaken. Because for the first time, I realized something terrifying:

Misha Petrov might be the only man here who didn’t want to break me.

He just might be the only one who already knew how.

The engagement party was a lie wrapped in silk and blood.

Gold chandeliers blazed overhead, throwing light across the marble floors. Waiters in crisp suits floated between guests with trays of champagne and caviar. The air smelled of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and greed.

Everyone who mattered in Colombia’s underworld was here tonight.

Bratva lieutenants, cartel heirs, politicians with bloodstains behind their smiles.

And me.

The sacrificial bride.

I stood on the balcony overlooking the ballroom, the cold iron rail digging into my palms.

Below, the music swelled, something slow, romantic, pretending this was just a love story.

My dress clung too tight to my skin, the color a soft, shimmering ivory, like innocence draped over a grave.

“Smile, baby,” Yuri murmured against my ear, his hand heavy on my hip. “They’re watching.”

I wanted to punch him. To scream about the drug he’d slipped into my drink two nights ago.

But not here. Not now. Not with every eye watching and the walls packed with men who would gladly silence a difficult bride.

So I smiled. Not for him. For survival. Just like Misha Petrov had advised.

I scanned the crowd. Gabriela stood near the champagne fountain, looking wilted and out of place in her pale blue gown.