Page 55 of Bratva Bride
The crowd’s attention is still fixed on the acrobats above, the silks swirling as bodies tumble gracefully through the air. Lights flash, music swells, and for a moment I almost forget how easily danger finds its way into any celebration.
That’s when a drunken man stumbles out of the crowd, half spilling his drink, and edges too close to Anya. He grins, swaying, eyes glazed. “Beautiful show, but not as pretty as you,” he slurs, reaching for her waist with clumsy hands.
Anya recoils, her expression tense. I step in immediately, catching the man’s wrist before he can touch her. I squeeze just hard enough that he winces. “Watch yourself,” I say, my voice low and firm.
The man’s bravado cracks. He jerks his hand away, stammers something half-apologetic, and slinks back into the crowd, almost tripping over another guest.
Anya lets out a shaky breath, a flash of gratitude in her eyes. The lights shift overhead as the acrobats begin their final, breathtaking descent, ribbons fluttering like comet tails. In the shifting chaos, Anya staggers, the crowd pressing forward to catch a better view, and she loses her balance. Without thinking, I catch her by the waist and steady her.
She looks up at me, breathless, her hands braced on my chest for just a second longer than necessary. The applause swells, glittering confetti drifting down, and for a fleeting moment it feels like we’re in a world apart from everything else—just two people lost in the lights, the music, and each other.
The acrobats finish with a perfect landing, the crowd erupting in cheers.
I steady Anya on her feet, the warmth of her hands fading as the crowd’s cheers start to die down. She’s smiling, a little dazed, her hair falling loose around her face. Then, suddenly, her expression shifts. The smile falters, her gaze sliding over my shoulder, sharpening with recognition.
She leans in, voice pitched low, nudging me lightly. “Isn’t that your wife?”
The words land like a bucket of ice water. I turn, pulse thudding, and spot Nadya just beyond the edge of the crowd. She stands near the marble railing, dressed in a red dress that draws every eye in the room—except hers are fixed on me. There’s a split second in which her pain is unmistakable, etched across her face, before she catches herself and masks it with a tilt of her chin, that practiced calm.
I let go of Anya’s arm, my pulse racing for a new reason.
Nadya doesn’t move, but I know her well enough to see the storm in her eyes. The crowd presses on around her, oblivious to the undercurrents around us.
For a moment, the whole casino blurs—the music, the laughter, the spinning lights—leaving only Nadya and the raw distance between us. I feel something twist hard in my chest.
Anya steps aside, suddenly quieter. “I didn’t know she’d be here,” she murmurs.
I swallow, trying to school my expression, but Nadya is already turning away, slipping back into the crowd, the shimmer of her dress vanishing between the shadows and gold.
I break away from the crowd without a word, ignoring Anya’s worried look as I move after Nadya. She’s already disappeared into the tangle of rooms and glittering corridors. I spot the flash of her red dress as she slips past the cocktail lounge, moving quickly, head high. I push through groups of laughing strangers, pulse pounding in my ears, searching for my wife.
It isn’t long before my body is pressing Nadya against a wall, caging her in between my arms where she belongs. But I haven’t had enough time with her, enough time to explain. We need to talk, but not here. Not now.
Nadya leans in closer, her lips almost brushing mine, her breath warm against my mouth. Her eyes glitter, sharp with hurt and betrayal. When she speaks, her voice is a whisper only I can hear, words brushing against me like silk-edged blades.
“She’s waiting for you down the hallway.”
My brow furrows in confusion, but before I can reply, my senses sharpen, a prickle of awareness sliding down my spine. Nadya’s gaze shifts briefly past me, eyes narrowing just slightly. I follow her glance, turning my head just enough to see Anya standing there, half-hidden in shadow.
She’s watching us silently, a faint blush rising to her cheeks when our eyes meet. Her lips part, as if to speak, but she hesitates, clearly uncertain if she’s just interrupted something intimate.
I turn back to Nadya, the tension in her body now unmistakable. She stares at me coldly, accusation lingering in her eyes. “Goon,” she says, louder now, voice dripping with bitterness. “She’s clearly waiting for you.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Nadya pulls away sharply, stepping out from between my body and the wall. Her expression shutters, cool and distant again, leaving me feeling hollow and angry at how quickly our closeness shattered.
“Nadya,” I begin, my voice low, pleading.
She lifts a hand sharply, silencing me. “Don’t.”
Then she turns, walking away without another glance, heels echoing softly down the empty corridor. I’m left staring after her, fists clenched, heart hammering with frustration.
When I finally turn to Anya, she’s still frozen in place, eyes wide, looking as if she wants to apologize.
“I’m sorry, Konstantin,” she begins quietly, shifting nervously. “I didn’t mean to?—”
I shake my head, holding up a hand. “Not now, Anya.”
By the time I make it outside, Nadya is already gone. The desert air feels colder, emptier, and the silence is deafening. I scan the parking lot, my pulse quickening as I search for any sign of her car, but it’s nowhere in sight.
