Page 12 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

Instead he lifted my left hand with calm control. The ring—made for Isabella—caught on my knuckle. The diamond bit my skin, and I flinched on instinct.

Kiryan didn't pause. His thumb pressed the band down, hard, forcing it past the knuckle.

I sucked in a breath, but I couldn't yank my hand away with all those eyes on me.

The ring finally slid into place and clamped down, too tight. The pain was a thin crack only we could feel, hidden under this polished, respectable wedding.

That weightless, sick feeling swallowed me whole.

Yeah. What the hell had I been hoping for?

In his eyes, I'd chased off his fiancée. I was the kind of woman who clawed her way up no matter who she stepped on. He probably wished the one who'd vanished was me, not Isabella.

Then he offered his own ring and held out his left hand. My fingers shook so badly I could barely aim. He didn't move, just waited, patient, while I pushed it onto his ring finger. When I managed it, he even gave the priest a small nod.

The priest beamed and blessed us, and applause rose fast from the crowd.

The dizziness hadn't fully faded when Kiryan leaned in, slid an arm around my waist, and pulled me close.

"Don't get it twisted," he warned under his breath. "I am just finishing the process."

Then he kissed me.

His tongue drove into my mouth, rough, claiming, like he needed everyone watching to know he still ran this. That night—when he'd mistaken me for Isabella—he'd given me a few seconds of softness.

Now there was nothing but force.

My body remembered him before my mind could stop it. My legs went weak with shame.

I knew there was no tenderness in that kiss, and still my fingers panicked and fisted in his suit jacket. I couldn't catch a breath. I nearly collapsed into him.

Right as I started leaning into him, Kiryan ended it.

He pulled back clean, like he'd flipped a switch. I forced myself upright again, holding onto dignity by a thread.

"Look at them," someone said, clapping. "They look so in love!"

People who hadn't seen the engagement mess cheered and sighed.

The ones who'd known Isabella stared at me with disgust. Somewhere in the crowd, someone muttered, "Poor Isabella," and another voice agreed right away.

The ring made my finger throb. My chest felt tight.

"Not happy?" Kiryan's voice turned to ice. "You finally got to stand here like you wanted."

A chill ran up my spine. My gut told me everything after this only got worse.

After the ceremony, the reception happened like clockwork.

I wore a champagne-colored evening gown and pinned my hair up high, trying to look like I belonged in this room.

It stayed in the same ballroom. The towering flower baskets and Roman columns were gone. A champagne tower glittered on one table. Perfect little desserts and plated bites filled the others. It looked like the kind of reception only New York's top tier could afford—silverware catching the light, food arranged to tempt you.

I barely saw any of it.

As Kiryan's wife, I had to hold a glass and trail behind him, greeting everyone we met. Isabella lived for this. I only knew how to sweat through it.

"Thank you for coming," Kiryan said, that shallow smile never leaving his face.