Page 18 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

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Halfway through the drive, I press a hand to my chest.

It aches.

A dull, unfamiliar throb. Not pain exactly—more like pressure. Weight.

I scowl.

I know what’s causing it, even if I don’t want to admit it.

Her face.

Tear-streaked. Shaking. Gut-punched by reality.

Jennie.

I told myself it wouldn’t matter. That she could cry all night, and I wouldn’t care.

I’ve done worse to women for less.

But something about her crying makes my chest feel…tight.

I flex my fingers, hating the sensation.

This is what I wanted. Her. In my world. In my bed. Wearing my ring.

So why does it feel like I left something broken behind?

I shove the thought away.

By the time we reach my estate, I’ve locked it down again. The gates swing open. Security cameras track every movement.Staff line the entrance, bodyguards stand at attention, but I don’t acknowledge anyone.

I walk straight inside.

The house smells like leather, gun oil, and faint citrus polish. It’s dark, brutalist, private. Mine.

I take the stairs two at a time and enter my bedroom. I don’t bother turning on the lights.

I sit on the edge of the bed and dial Lukin.

It rings twice.

Lukin picks up on the second ring.

“Have you decided what to do?” he asks, his tone even.

“I have,” I say. “You need to come back for my wedding.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“For your wedding?” Lukin asks. Not judgmental. Just confirming.

“Yes.”

Another pause. Then, “You sure you want to move this fast?”

“I should’ve done it a long time ago,” I say, standing now, walking slowly to the window. “The moment I set eyes on her, I knew.”

Lukin hums, thoughtful.

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