Page 4 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Kiera tilts her head. “No. You’re just… tired.”

That stops me. I study her face. Younger than me, but not naïve. She sees too much.

“Tired of what?” I ask.

“Pretending you like it here.”

Eleanor claps her hands lightly. “Okay, enough psychoanalysis. We’re at a party.”

Kiera shrugs, unbothered. “You’re the one who dragged me here, Eleanor.”

“I dragged you because you looked like you were ready to start a fight at the bar.”

“Only if someone deserved it.”

I try not to smile. It slips out anyway, just barely. I haven’t smiled like this all night. Not since I left the penthouse. Not since I looked at my phone and saw the same empty screen.

No messages from him. No explanation. Of course not.

“Alina,” a man says behind me, and I already hate the way he says it.

I turn slowly.

He’s younger than most in the room—late twenties maybe—slick hair, tailored suit, jaw too tight. I’ve seen him before. Some minor hedge fund name.

“Hello, Chase,” I say flatly.

“Your father’s not here?”

“He had other obligations.”

He fakes a sympathetic look. “That’s too bad. I thought he might be interested in hearing about our expansion proposal in person.”

“He’s not.”

Chase’s eyes dart toward Kiera, linger half a second too long. She doesn’t flinch, just stares back at him like she’s already figured out how he dies.

“Excuse me,” I say, stepping between them. “We were just about to get another drink.”

Chase opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and nods. “Of course. Another time.”

We watch him disappear into the crowd.

Kiera leans close. “You always talk to men like that?”

“Only when I’m in a good mood.”

She smiles. “Must be a rare event.”

I glance over my shoulder. I can still feel the room pulsing behind me. Hear the notes of the string quartet trying to fill the space with something elegant. But it’s all just noise.

The unease crawls back up my spine like a second skin.

I excuse myself with a soft smile and a hand on Kiera’s arm, murmuring something about needing air. She doesn’t press. Just watches me go with a knowing look that settlesbeneath my skin. The kind of look that says she sees too much and says too little.

The hallway outside the ballroom is colder. Quieter. The noise fades behind heavy doors as I step out and lean against the wall, inhaling a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I pull my phone from my clutch, checking out of habit more than expectation.

Six missed calls, all from my father.

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