Page 1 of Plus-Size Bride Forced By the Bratva
Chapter 1 —Ravyn
This was exactly the kind of gathering that I hated, honestly: one that required me to wear a gown and a polite smile. I had to play the role of the poised, perfect girlfriend just to impress my powerful, handsome boyfriend, Viktor.
I never wanted to be here tonight, because these gatherings were constant reminders of the life I was running away from. The place reeked of wealth and power, the aroma of champagne blending seamlessly with the rich scent of perfumes and colognes.
The soft hum of conversations filled the air, accompanied by the occasional clinking of glasses. Guests, dressed to impress, hung around in small groups, their faces lit up with smiles—a good number of which were plastic. Like mine.
I stood beside my boyfriend, Viktor, fingers locked in his, pretending to listen to his dumb friends as they spoke with enthusiasm. Those idiots, two boys and two girls, had nothing valuable to talk about except their designer clothes and expensive accessories.
For the past ten minutes or so, none of them had said anything about their achievements within the last few months. Nothing productive or clever. No plans for the future whatsoever.
All these bird-brained assholes did was brag about their parents’ money and how they weren’t getting enough allowance to spend on vacations and redundant accessories.
I wasn’t a party pooper; I wasn’t that uptight either. It just always bothered me when I met young boys and girls with no goals or ambition other than spending Daddy’s money. Being born into a family of affluence was a privilege, and these folks didn’t even understand how lucky they were. And instead of focusing on building their lives with this opportunity granted tothem, they’d rather live a lavish lifestyle—party all day and do hard drugs.
I was not a saint, nor was I a hypocrite. I just despised lazy people, especially those who thought the world revolved around them because of their family status.
Sometimes, I wondered why I was different, seeing that I was born with the same privileges as these guys. My father was richer and more important in society than all of Viktor’s friends’ families put together.
Yet, I loved to lie low and do my thing away from my family’s wealth and power. My father built a life, his empire, all by himself, and that was the same mindset that kept me going.
In all honesty, I’d rather brag about the little change I made from my fashion design than tie myself to Daddy’s money. Where was the dignity in that?
Fashion design had been my major in college, and it was paying my bills. I loved making dresses and getting paid for it. In the eyes of many, this was nothing but petty change. But it wasmymoney. Mine. An exchange for a service that I provided. And I was super proud of it.
“Don’t you think so, babe?” Viktor’s words cut through my thoughts like a knife.
Snapped back to reality, I was totally confused, unaware of what the hell they had been talking about for the past three to five minutes.
“Huh?” I looked at him, eyes slightly widened, confused.
“The new club downtown,” one of the two boys said to me, his flirtatious gaze sweeping over my body. “We have got to check it out.” His lips curled into a rather disturbing smirk.
My face contorted into a faint scowl, triggered by the lust flickering in his eyes.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” one of the girls said to me, her voice soft and polite. “Your dress—where’d you get it? Did you order it online or buy it in-store?”
“This?” I glanced down at the emerald spaghetti-strapped gown that clung to me like a second skin. “Oh, uh…I made it myself.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, awe dancing in her gaze. “Shut the door!”
My lips curled into a self-satisfied grin.
“OMG. I love it.” She reached out, gesturing at the fabric. “Can I?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Always happy to meet a fan of my work.
She felt the material’s quality and squinted, as if admiring the intricate patterns woven into the fabric. “My God, the details on this….” She glanced up at my face. “You’re so talented.”
“Thank you,” I said, a glint of pride creeping into my tone.
Nothing beat the joy of a genuine compliment over a job well done.
“Viktor, you, my friend, are such a lucky bastard,” said one of the boys, and the others burst out laughing.
“Of course.” He chuckled, swinging his arm over my shoulders. “She’s exceptional in more ways than you can imagine.”
