Page 41 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
He vanishes into the crowd as if he was never there. I tuck the phone into the deep pocket sewn into my skirt, fingers clumsy, palms sweating. Every nerve in my body screams. For the next hour, I barely move. I barely speak. I just drift, nodding,sipping champagne I don’t taste, clinging to the edge of the conversation. All I can think about is the device burning against my skin. A phone. A lifeline. Or a knife.
As the party thins, I slip away to the restroom, then a side corridor, anywhere Rostya’s gaze won’t pin me in place. I lock myself into a powder room, chest heaving. The phone is tiny, basic. A burner. I run my thumb over it, feeling its ridges, its menace. Denis’s words echo:“One call, and it’s done.”
I stare at my reflection in the gilded mirror. Who is this woman, clutching a weapon she didn’t ask for? My hands shake. I want to fling the phone away, flush it, destroy the evidence and the temptation. But I don’t. I can’t.
Beneath the fear, a darker, more desperate hope gnaws at me. What if he’s telling the truth? What if this is my only chance? Could I trade Rostya’s empire for my freedom, or would I only end up in a different cage?
I think of Rostya: the violence, the hunger in his eyes, the gentleness he never shows but sometimes lets slip, just for me. I think of his hands, his power, the ring on my finger—a promise or a threat, depending on how I look at it.
The phone sits in my palm, patient, waiting for a decision I’m not ready to make. All I know is that the world has tilted, possibilities spinning out from this small, stolen moment. I tuck the phone away again, lock the mask of Rostya’s wife back in place, and step out into the hall. The music, the laughter, the sharp glances, they all crash back around me.
Now, in the pocket of my dress, freedom is close enough to touch, and the most dangerous secret I’ve ever held is suddenly my own.
Rostya doesn’t appear so much as change the air itself. I sense him before I see him—an electric hush that sweeps through the hall, laughter thinning, voices dipping lower.
Men straighten in their suits, women draw closer, everyone subtly orienting themselves toward the storm. Rostya Sharov, arriving late by design, makes every entrance a reckoning.
My skin prickles as if caught in a cold current. I know, without turning, that his eyes are already searching, already finding. When his gaze locks on me, it cuts through the crowd like a blade. Denis is still dangerously close. My mind flashes:Does Rostya know? Did he see the handoff? Is my fear as obvious as I feel it?
I murmur a quick excuse, not daring to look Denis in the eye, and slip away into the safety of the crowd. The phone is a brand against my leg, every step a struggle to look casual, to seem empty-handed and empty-hearted.
Rostya intercepts me before I can catch my breath. His hand lands at the small of my back, heavy, claiming. I can feel the tension in his grip, the promise of consequences, the threat woven into his smallest gesture. He leans in, lowering his head so that his lips are just at my ear. It’s a show for the crowd, but the chill in my spine is all too real.
“Smile,” he murmurs, voice low, barely moving his lips. I obey. My mouth stretches in a brittle curve. I murmur a greeting, just loud enough for anyone watching, but my voice is thin, sharp-edged.
His fingers press just slightly harder, reminding me who I belong to. He steers me away from the thickest knot of guests, guiding me with the ease of long practice. Always in control, always watching.
My pulse hammers against my ribs, guilt crowding my throat. I wonder if he can feel the tremor in my spine, if he senses the secret hiding inches from his touch.
He doesn’t mention Denis. He doesn’t mention anything at all. But his eyes linger too long, flicking to my face, searching. The sharpness in his gaze leaves me flayed, as though every lie I’ve ever told is suddenly etched in my skin for him to read. I want to shrink away, but I can’t—his hold won’t let me.
We glide through the party, a perfect portrait of power and possession. I cling to the role, to the mask of the dutiful wife, every gesture rehearsed, every smile costing more than the last.
I’m barely holding together, desperate to hide the burning secret in my pocket and the mounting terror in my heart.
Rostya doesn’t have to say a word. His presence alone is enough to remind me: in this world, every misstep is watched. Every secret—eventually—comes to light.
The party grinds on, every moment choreographed, every smile a lie. I sit at Rostya’s side through the endless speeches and toasts, the clinking of glasses and the metallic taste of old grudges masked as new alliances.
The hall sparkles with crystal and danger. I laugh when I must, tilt my chin to the light, rest my hand on his arm so everyone sees I belong to him. I feel the eyes on us—hungry, envious, calculating. The pressure of their attention is suffocating, but nothing compared to the weight hidden in my pocket.
I don’t look at Denis again. I feel him, a dark star somewhere behind the champagne and silk, waiting for a signal I can’t afford to give. If I meet his gaze even once, the spell will shatter. Someone will see too much. Someone always does.
Instead, I play the role that keeps me breathing. I smile at the wives with their diamond claws and cool eyes. I thank the elders who pinch my cheek and whisper veiled threats about loyalty and blood. I accept compliments, I deflect questions, I never, ever let my fingers stray too close to the line of my pocket where the phone hides—small, burning, dangerous.
The object presses against me with every movement, heavier than all the jewels Rostya’s bought me. I imagine what would happen if he found it. His rage is legendary, cold, surgical, absolute.
I see my own body broken in the reflection of his wrath, the neat ruin he could make of me if he felt betrayed. I wonder if he’d do it himself, or if he’d let his men teach me the lesson. I wonder if I’d survive it, or if I’d even want to.
Yet the fantasy persists—just one call, one pressed button, one whispered plea, and maybe, just maybe, I could disappear. I could outrun this gilded cage. The hope is more painful than the fear. Every second I let myself believe in escape is another second I risk everything.
The room swells with noise, but my mind is silent, running circles around my secret. I catch Rostya’s gaze once, his eyes hooded, mouth unsmiling. He studies me for a moment, as if searching for a crack in the mask. I force myself to lean in, to laugh at a joke I barely hear, to sip the wine he hands me with trembling fingers.
Tonight, I am the perfect wife: beautiful, obedient, inscrutable.
Inside, a tiny, stolen phone is an ember, threatening to ignite the whole house. It’s my only salvation, and my most certain ruin.
As I sit beside the man who owns my name, my body, and my future, the secret between us grows heavier by the minute. If he ever finds it, if my betrayal is ever exposed, it will destroy me.
