Page 26 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
I nod, but the fear is already clawing its way up my throat.
Who the hell am I marrying?
Zoe leans in and kisses both my cheeks gently. Her lipstick smells like roses and something expensive I can’t name.
“I only have a few minutes with you,” she murmurs, brushing a stray curl behind my ear. “Violet’s downstairs.She’s…well, she’s Violet. She already got into it with one of the bodyguards.”
I blink. “What?”
Zoe sighs like she’s already too tired for today. “She threatened to pepper spray him because he wouldn’t let her into the estate to see you. I had to intervene.”
Despite everything, I laugh. A real one.
“God, I love her.”
“Same. But she’s got no filter and way too much heart, so I need to keep an eye on her until the ceremony’s over. Just to make sure we all survive.”
I nod, trying to hold in the tears again.
Zoe steps back and studies me one last time. Her eyes go warm, soft with that kind of quiet pride that makes something sting behind my ribs.
“Don’t cry,” she says. “Your makeup is too good.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
She smiles, but there’s a sad edge to it. “You look beautiful, Jennie. Like a dream. I just wish this wasn’t your nightmare.”
I swallow hard. “Me too.”
Zoe turns and walks to the door, pausing just once to glance back at me.
“Head high, okay?” she says. “No matter what happens out there, you walk like you’re already wearing a crown.”
And then she’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind her.
And I’m alone again. Just me. My black velvet dress. And a future that feels like it’s closing in with every breath I take.
Chapter 6 – Adrian
The ceremony has already begun.
Candles flicker in the corners of the Rusnak estate chapel, their glow dancing over the black-stoned walls and polished wooden pews. It’s quiet, reverent—like death. Or devotion. The place smells like smoke and flowers. Black dahlias spill from every corner, curling like dark velvet against marble and iron.
I stand at the altar in a suit that costs more than some people’s homes, custom-cut to wrap my body like armor. I feel the weight of every eye in the room—Bratva leaders, trusted men, killers dressed in fine wool and sharp silk. But I’m not thinking about any of them.
I’m only thinking about her.
And then—
The doors open.
She steps in.
My chest tightens.
Jennie walks in slowly, alone, a storm of velvet and lace. Her dress is black—like mourning, like power—and it fits her like it was sewn onto her skin. Strapless, delicate at the top, then cascading down into shadows. Her hair’s swept back, her shoulders bare, her eyes down.
