Page 11 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

Today was the day the Rossi family and the Morozov family officially locked hands. To my father, this moment mattered as much as his own heartbeat.

"I am almost done," I said, tugging the fabric higher at my chest to make it look less exposed.

"That face of yours only looks decent under paint," he said, looking me up and down with open disgust. "You'd better perform today. Don't embarrass the Rossi name."

His contempt hit like needles—sharp, familiar—and still it didn't make a ripple in my chest anymore.

"I will, Father," I said, nodding, bowing my head a little like a good girl.

His expression softened by a fraction.

In heels that didn't fit, I walked to him in careful, broken steps. He grabbed my arm and hauled me out of the dressing room toward the doors of the hall—his grip rough, practical, not gentle. He wasn't guiding me. He was keeping me from face-planting.

I knew I didn't matter.

But if I fell on that carpet and humiliated him, he'd make sure I paid for it.

Every step felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Under the skirt my knees stayed slightly bent, the only way I could keep my balance.

The doors loomed in front of me. Behind them waited the red carpet that led straight into marriage with Kiryan.

"Think about what your sister would do," my father said, slapping my back. The sting lasted seconds, then panic flooded in again. "Head up. Shoulders back. Don't shame me."

The doors opened.

Hundreds of eyes snapped to me—maybe more. I couldn't count.

They watched my father and me step onto the carpet, and a wave of whispers slid through the room.

"Isn't that the younger Rossi daughter?" a woman in a blue gown muttered to the person beside her. "Why is she on the aisle?"

Another woman in a pale pink dress frowned hard. "At the engagement party, Kiryan's fiancée was Isabella. How the hell is it her now?"

Their eyes kept landing on me. If looks had been needles, I would've been bleeding.

I clamped my teeth into my lip and kept walking.

This hall was bigger than the engagement venue. The end of the carpet felt like it kept moving away from me. White roses—Isabella's favorite—lined both sides, their perfume crawling into my nose, reminding me again and again who this wedding was supposed to belong to.

Kiryan stood at the far end. Every step brought me closer, and every step felt stiffer than the last. I didn't know what waited for me.

When I finally stopped in front of him, his eyes looked dark, and his mouth curved like he'd already decided how this would go.

"Kiryan Morozov," the priest said, reciting the vows like always, "do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and honor her, in good times and bad, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death parts you?"

The sacred words sounded like a joke in my ears.

"I do," Kiryan said, flat, no emotion.

His gaze never left me, but nothing about it felt like love.

The ceremony rolled on. After the vows came the rings. The kiss.

"Please exchange rings," the priest said.

Kiryan took the ring and held out his hand for mine. That perfectly measured smile stayed on his mouth. His shoulders stayed steady. Even his breathing didn't change, like I'd always been the bride standing here.

It was wrong. If he'd demanded answers in front of everyone, if he'd cut the ceremony off, at least I would've known what to fear.