Page 11 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

I turn back to find her watching me with that same calculating expression, the fury temporarily banked beneath cold assessment.

“This won’t work,” she says quietly. “Whatever you’re planning, whatever you think this alliance will accomplish—forcing me into it guarantees it will fail. I will find a way to make you regret this.”

It’s not an empty threat or desperate bravado. She means it with absolute conviction, already planning her revenge even while trapped in circumstances she can’t control.

Most people would find the threat amusing coming from someone with zero power in the situation.

I find it strangely compelling.

Chapter Five - Serena

The dress arrives at dawn, delivered by Anya with an expression that hovers somewhere between sympathy and discomfort. She hangs it on the closet door without meeting my eyes, then retreats quickly before I can say anything.

I don’t look at it for a full hour.

When I finally force myself to cross the room, I find exactly what I expected: a simple, elegant gown. It has white silk that will photograph beautifully in whatever documentation they’re planning. Cap sleeves, a fitted bodice to hug my curvy waist, and a skirt that falls to just above the ankle.

It’s the kind of dress a senator’s daughter would choose for a small, intimate wedding.

Except I didn’t choose it, I didn’t choose any of this.

The anger that’s been simmering for two days flares hot and sharp. I want to tear the dress apart, throw it out the window, set it on fire—anything to reject what it represents. Destroying it won’t change what happens in six hours. It will only give Pavel another opportunity to demonstrate his control by forcing me into whatever replacement he selects.

So I hang it back up and turn away, refusing to touch it again until absolutely necessary.

The morning passes in tense silence. Anya brings breakfast I don’t eat. A hairstylist arrives—apparently Pavel has thoughts about my appearance for this forced ceremony—and I sit rigid in the chair while she works, not speaking, not cooperating, just enduring. She styles my hair in soft waves pinned partially back, elegant and feminine and exactly what a bride should look like.

I hate every second of it.

By late afternoon, my composure is starting to fracture around the edges. The reality of what’s about to happen keeps trying to surface, and I keep shoving it down with sheer force of will. Breaking down won’t help. Crying won’t change anything. The only power I have left is refusing to let them see me crumble.

When Anya returns at seven thirty with instructions to get dressed, I finally put on the white dress with mechanical precision. It fits perfectly, of course. Everything Pavel arranges fits perfectly because he plans for every contingency, anticipates every detail.

I catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize myself. I look like a bride. Polished, beautiful, ready to pledge her life to the man she loves.

The disconnect between image and reality makes my stomach turn.

At seven forty-five, there’s a knock on the door. Not Anya this time, but one of the guards—the older one with the scar across his knuckles who’s been stationed outside my room since the failed escape attempt.

“It’s time,” he says in heavily accented English.

I don’t respond, just walk past him into the hallway with my head high and my hands steady despite the way my heart is trying to hammer its way out of my chest. The guards fall into formation around me.

We descend the main staircase toward the sitting room I’ve only glimpsed once before. The doors are open now, and I can see inside: the furniture has been rearranged to create an aisle of sorts leading to a small raised platform near the windows.

Someone brought in flowers: white roses and peonies, elegant and impersonal. There are perhaps a dozen chairs arranged in neat rows, though only seven are occupied.

Seven witnesses to the destruction of my autonomy.

I catalog them as I’m led forward, forcing myself to observe rather than feel. Six men in dark suits, all carrying themselves with the same controlled danger that marks Pavel’s people. Bratva, clearly. Soldiers or enforcers or whatever they call themselves. They watch my approach with expressions ranging from curiosity to indifference.

Then there’s the seventh man.

He sits in the front row, and the family resemblance to Pavel is immediately obvious despite the differences. Slightly shorter, leaner build, with dark blond hair where Pavel’s is ash-brown. The same sharp cheekbones, the same controlled posture, the same pale eyes that assess everything with cold calculation.

His gaze meets mine as I pass, and unlike the others, there’s something in his expression—not quite sympathy, but acknowledgment. Like he sees exactly what’s happening here and understands the precise weight of it.

Pavel’s brother, I realize. He has to be.