Page 15 of The Bratva's Plus-Size Bride

My heart pounds at that thought. He wants me. That morning in the hotel bed, I almost let him have me. It was far too close. My self-control melts away when he’s around, and I find it hard to remember why I ever wanted to have any self-control in the first place; he feels that good.

“We’re here, Miss Ella,” says the driver as we pull to a stop in front of the boutique. He gets out before I can even unbuckle and opens the door for me. “I’ll just wait right here for you. Take your time.”

It’s Billy, Mr. Milov’s personal driver, and his car as well. I recognize the immaculate interior with seats softer than my bed, the windows tinted so dark from the outside that you can’t see a single thing in here. Over the top, like the rest of Mr. Milov.

“Thank you, Billy,” I reply, embarrassed. I’m not used to this sort of treatment. I’ve never been driven anywhere except in a cheap taxi that smells a little like vomit, on my own dime, and I’ve certainly never had a car waiting for me. “I’ll be as quick as I can. You really don’t need to wait.”

“Happy to,” he says with a smile. ”And Mr. Milov would have my hide if I didn’t, so there’s not much use in arguing.”

I felt that in my bones. It’s just one of the things I need to get used to with this new job. The salary and benefits are worth it. This is my chance to do more than just scrape by in life. After waking up this morning and finding a dead rat in my shoe, I was more than ready for a change. Ready for life not to be so hard all the time.

But first, one more difficult thing.I brace myself and open the door to the boutique. The women behind the desk are thin and look like they belong on the runway. There’s no chance in hell that anything in this place will fit me, and for a moment, I wonder if Mr. Milov sent me here as some sort of cruel joke. He’d never do that. I know it in my gut. For all his flaws, he’s never been anything but kind to me. Protective, even.

One of the women, a leggy blonde, smiles warmly. “Ella? We’ve been waiting for you.”

I realize there are no other customers in the store and do a double-take at the sign: Closed. Did he have this whole place shut down just for me? We were going to have to talk about what constitutes a business expense once he lets me get a hand on his budget. Some things were still off-limits for me, I assume, until I prove myself during this trial, and his personal budget was one of them.

“I hope this isn’t too much of an inconvenience,” I stammer. Although there are no mannequins around the store, I don’t need to see them to know this place caters to the wealthy wives of the elite, the sample size crowd. “I don’t really think anything in here will fit me, so I’ve probably wasted your time. I’m sorry.”

The other woman turns and walks to the back, likely to call Mr. Milov and inform him that there’s been a mistake, that they have nothing here for a plus-sized woman, and wouldn’t he prefer another assistant instead. All my worst fears are coming true, and humiliation wraps around my waist like an anchor, dragging me down to reality.

Then she returns, holding up a gorgeous gown with one hand and a pair of shoes in the other. The gown is just my style, if I had the means to afford anything like it. Crimson red, low cut, and definitely not a size zero.

“Is that for me?” I can’t believe it. It feels like something out of a movie.

She nods and holds it out to me, doesn’t even snatch it back when I reach for it. “Mr. Milov came in and picked it out for you yesterday. Would you like to try it on?”

I nod, unable to take my eyes off the luxurious fabric. She leads me to the dressing room, bigger than my kitchen and complete with a tufted sofa in case I get tired. Left alone, I startto undress. I’m afraid to check the tag for two reasons—the size and the price. Mr. Milov might have great taste but does he really know what size I am? I know I’m about to be humiliated trying to fit into this gown. Still, I have to try.

The fabric is silky smooth, and the zipper is hidden but sturdy, unzipping well below the butt which gives me ample room to step in. To my surprise, it pulls on easily without any telltale popping sounds from the stitches or any need for me to try and hold my breath as I zip up. It just zips. Effortlessly. Like it was made for me.

And I look good, too. For once, my reflection in a dressing room mirror doesn’t make me want to cry. Despite my determination to keep Mr. Milov at arm’s length, I can’t help thinking about his face when he sees me in this. The way he can’t keep his hands off of me, the way I always catch him staring, I can’t deny that he wants me. The part of me that can’t believe a man like him, a man who could be an underwear model, wants me grows smaller by the day. It’s impossible to deny. The only thing keeping us apart is my willpower.

From outside the door, one of the women calls, “How is it? Does it fit okay? We have tailors that can adjust anything to your specifications.”

I unlock the door and step out. Both of the women gasp and clap their hands together, and I wonder if Mr. Milov paid them for their reactions, too. But it feels good, and I can’t fit the responding smile on my own face.

“It’s perfect!” cries the blonde while the other nods in agreement.

“Let’s try the shoes,” says the other, bending down to help me slide the stilettos onto my feet.

They’re classy and surprisingly comfortable, fitting my feet just as well as the dress fit my body. How does he know what size I am? The thought is a niggle in the back of my mind, filed right next to his reluctance to show me certain parts of his files.

“How do you feel?” she asks, stepping back and gesturing for me to stand in front of the many mirrors.

“Amazing,” I answer honestly. For once, the funhouse of mirrors doesn’t turn into a nightmare.

“Perfect. He was so certain you would. Is there anything else you want us to pull for you?”

A bubble of laughter escapes. There’s no way in hell I can afford this dress and shoes, let alone anything else in this store. Despite Mr. Milov’s insistence that this is a business expense, I’m determined to charge it to my credit card even if it maxes me out for the month. I won’t be a charity case. That won’t help me be taken seriously.

“Just this,” I say, with a sigh. Maybe I can keep the tags on and return it the morning after.

I undress quickly and head for the counter before I can lose my nerve. The saleswomen take the dress and shoes and begin to pack them in boxes of tissue paper, complete with a ribbon, while I spin my credit card in my fingers. I can practically feel it quivering in fear.

“Here you are,” says the blonde, stepping around the counter to hand me my packages.

“I still need to pay,” I blurt out.

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