Page 2 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
And for the past year…it’s been worse.
I try to date—when I have time between classes and my shifts at the café. And at first, the guys seem into it. They flirt, they text, they smile like they mean it. But by the second date, something always shifts. They stop replying. Or worse, they see me on campus and go pale like they’ve seen a ghost. One guy literally turned around and walked the other way in the middle of the student quad.
After the fourth time, I stopped trying.
Maybe after graduation, I’ll meet someone older. More grounded. Someone who sees more than my body or my awkward laugh or the way I talk with my hands when I get nervous.
Eww. Now I sound like Violet when she’s going on about love and romance.
My best bet is that I’ll just adopt a cat and live in the woods.
“Earth to Jennie,” Violet says, waving a hand in front of my face.
“Sorry. Zoned out.”
She narrows her eyes. “Were you picturing a boyfriend hug?”
“No,” I lie, smiling faintly. “Maybe.”
“You deserve that kind of love,” she says quietly. “The real kind.”
I nod, but I don’t say anything. I’m not sure I believe it.
The apartment creaks faintly as the wind shifts outside. It’s old, this place. A second-floor unit on the edge of campus, squeezed between a dry cleaner’s and a shuttered antique store.The floors are crooked, the heater rattles in the winter, and the windows fog over every morning. But I’ve made it mine.
Soft pink curtains flutter by the balcony doors. There’s a tiny white bookcase in the corner, filled with my favorite dog-eared paperbacks, a few scattered psychology textbooks, and a chipped ceramic mug I use as a vase. String lights hang above the couch, their warm glow bouncing off the pale yellow walls. I painted them myself. Took me three weekends and a lot of swearing.
It’s not fancy. But it feels like a heartbeat. Like a place where something good might grow.
The oven timer dings.
Violet bolts upright like she’s been summoned by the food gods. “That’s my cue!”
I laugh and head to the kitchen, pulling the banana bread from the oven. It smells divine—rich, warm, comforting. Like my childhood in the small, happy pockets before everything got messy.
“Is it ready?” Violet almost crashes into me from behind. “Is it? Is it?”
I roll my eyes.
“Jennie,” Violet groans. “I’m so hungry I could eat that tiny dog across the street.”
“You’re not eating Mr. Pickles,” I reply, laughing as I grab two mismatched plates from the cabinet. “Calm down. It’s ready.”
She perks up immediately. “Bless your banana-loving heart.”
I cut thick slices from the loaf, steam still curling up like it’s sighing with pride. The crust is golden, the center soft and fluffy, and the kitchen smells like vanilla and brown sugar and home. I hand Violet a slice, and she moans dramatically after the first bite.
“Okay, maybe crime and carbsisa superior combo,” she says through a full mouth while walking back to the couch. “I take back every complaint I’ve ever made about your weird documentaries.”
“Thank you,” I reply, settling beside her with my own slice. “Your approval means everything to me.”
“Damn right it does.”
We fall into that easy rhythm we’ve perfected—just two overworked, final-year students in a cozy, run-down apartment, wrapped in blankets and soft lights, watching horrifying things together like it’s self-care.
The screen flickers with a reenactment of a quiet neighborhood gone dark after a string of disappearances. The narrator’s voice is low and ominous, but I’m more focused on the case breakdown than the dramatized footage. The psychology behind it—the escalation, the motives, the childhood triggers—I live for it.
“That’s the fourth time they’ve shown the same lamppost,” Violet says, licking a crumb from her thumb. “We get it. The suburb has atmosphere.”
