Page 17 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

I had to do something, or my work would end up in a dumpster.

"They aren't trash," I said, words tumbling out. "They are my tools. Those paintings include other people's commissions. I took deposits. I have to finish them."

The maid stood there holding the brush, looking at Kiryan, then at me, stuck.

"I can pack it all back into my suitcase. You won't even have to see it." It came out like begging because it was. "They matter to me. Please—don't throw them away."

"Stop putting on a show. I don't buy it." Kiryan looked at the maid, who still hadn't moved. "Do I need to say it again?"

I hugged the supplies tighter, refusing to let go. But I knew she couldn't disobey him. If I kept fighting, she might be the one punished. None of this was her fault.

Slowly, I loosened my grip and handed everything over.

She took it with both hands and said under her breath, "I'm sorry, ma'am."

Then she lifted the painting off the easel, gathered the rest—one by one, with their moisture-proof paper—and hugged them to her chest. Not long after, the door shut again. The messy room suddenly looked stripped bare. The easel still stood by the window, but the canvas was gone.

"Since you stole Isabella's place," Kiryan said, his voice ice-cold, "you pay the price."

His stare cut from my eyes to my mouth, hungry and invasive. I licked my dry lips, and my body went tight in an instant. That rough, loveless kiss at the wedding flared back to life. He saw my reaction. Of course he did.

"Just because I touched you doesn't mean you get to fantasize about me accepting you," he said low. "And don't you dare expect I'd ever love you."

That hurt worse than the insults. Because I had fantasized.

"I don't," I lied.

"You'd better not." His expression eased a fraction. "There is a banquet in a week. You come with me. You wear something you can be seen in, and you drop the miserable little act."

"I understand." I lowered my eyes. "That day, I show up exactly how you want."

He looked at me one last time, like he was deciding whether I could actually do what I'd said. Then he walked out, his footsteps fading away.

The second they disappeared, I bolted.

The maid was already gone. I sprinted downstairs and didn't see any sign of my things.

Fuck. Where had they thrown them?

I grabbed the first servant I passed and asked. She told me the manor's trash went out the side door to the backyard, then got hauled away by a pickup.

I ran for the side door, nearly slipping on the wet floor more than once. The moment I shoved it open, icy rain smacked my face.

Several huge black dumpsters sat in the yard. In the distance, the iron gate hadn't fully closed yet, and a garbage truck was already pulling onto the road outside the manor. They'd clearly taken one load.

"Wait!" I screamed and chased it.

Rain and engine noise swallowed my voice. The truck didn't slow, didn't even flinch—just gave me its taillights and kept going.

All I could do was pray my stuff was still in the dumpsters. I didn't stop for an umbrella. Every second mattered. I lunged to the nearest dumpster and flipped the lid, then the next, then the next.

Rotting food, empty bottles, soaked paper—all of it mashed together. The stench slammed into my nose. I dug through it anyway, filthy water sticking to my hands.

"Not this fast..." I whispered, searching every corner like it might magically appear.

Nothing.

The rain came down harder. Wet hair plastered to my cheeks. When I finally lifted my head from the last dumpster, something inside me went cold and dead. My things were gone. My paintings were really gone.