Page 53 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
One hour later, I’m standing outside a set of double doors I recognize as leading to Dimitri’s formal dining room. The women who prepared me have disappeared, leaving me alone with my reflection in the polished wood.
I look like a bride. Beautiful, composed, willing.
I’m none of those things.
The doors open.
The dining room has been transformed. Chairs arranged in rows, flowers I didn’t notice being delivered, an officiant waiting at the front.
There are people—so many people. Men in expensive suits, watching with expressions that range from curiosity to calculation.
The Bratva.
Dimitri’s family, his associates, his world laid bare.
At the front, Dimitri himself. Wearing a suit that probably costs more than I used to make in a month, expression unreadable, watching me like I’m the only person in the room.
If I can’t escape this, I’ll survive it. And if I survive it, I’ll find a way to make him regret ever pulling me back into his orbit.
I walk down the aisle.
There’s no one to give me away. Just me and the future I didn’t choose, approaching the man who orchestrated all of it.
Dimitri’s eyes track every step.
The ceremony is quick. Efficient. The officiant speaks in Russian, words I don’t understand but can guess at. Binding. Legal. Permanent.
When he prompts for responses, Dimitri answers in English.
“I do.”
Then it’s my turn. Everyone waits. Watches.
I could still refuse. Could make a scene, embarrass him in front of his entire organization.
The Volkovs would probably find me before nightfall.
“I do,” I say. My voice doesn’t shake.
The officiant pronounces us married.
Chapter Fourteen - Dimitri
The reception ends mercifully quick.
I make the necessary appearances—accept congratulations from men whose respect matters, deflect questions about the sudden marriage with vague references to timing and opportunity, endure Damien’s barely concealed fury with practiced indifference. He corners me once, voice low and dangerous.
“We’re discussing this tomorrow. My office.”
“Looking forward to it.”
His eyes promise consequences I’ll deal with when they come. For now, I have more immediate concerns.
Janice moves through the reception like a ghost. Smiling when prompted, accepting well-wishes with careful politeness, playing the role of dutiful bride with an accuracy that would be impressive if it weren’t so obviously strategic.
She’s planning something. I can see it in the careful neutrality of her expression, the way she catalogs every face and files away information for later use.
Good. I’d rather have her fighting than broken.
