Page 22 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I look around the station, desperate for another ally. Anyone. A younger cop, a civilian. Everyone is avoiding my eyes. They know. They all know who Nikita is, and they want no part of it.

This system isn’t designed to protect people like me. It’s designed to protect people like him.

“Fine,” I whisper, the fight draining out of me. “I’ll go.”

“Smart choice,” Nikita says. He places a hand on my lower back. “Thank you for your patience, Officer.”

“Anytime, Mr. Gromov. Congratulations on the wedding.”

“Thank you.”

He steers me toward the door. I don’t fight him. There’s no point. I tried the law, and the law failed.

We step outside into the bright afternoon sun. The town car is waiting at the curb. This time, I get in without being asked.

The ride to the venue is silent. Nikita doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even gloat; he just sits there, calm and composed, checking his watch.

“You can run,” he says suddenly, not looking at me. “It changes nothing.”

“I know,” I reply, staring out the window. “You own the police. You own the city. Who else is left?”

“You learn fast.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You never did.”

The car pulls up to a private estate in the Hamptons. It’s a sprawling mansion with manicured lawns and an ocean view. There are no reporters outside. No paparazzi. Only rows of luxury cars and men in earpieces.

This isn’t a wedding. It’s a business merger.

They lead me to a dressing room—a spacious suite filled with flowers and the dress Nikita picked out. It’s white, lace, extravagant. It fits perfectly, which makes me feel ill.

Davina is there, waiting for me. She looks terrified.

“Freya,” she says, rushing over. “Are you okay? I tried to call, but…”

“I know,” I say, hugging her tight. “It’s okay. I’m doing this.”

“You don’t have to,” she whispers. “We can still run. I have a car outside.”

“And go where?” I ask, pulling back to look at her. “He found me at the precinct in twenty minutes, Davina. There is nowhere to go.”

She looks at me, her eyes swimming with tears, and realizes I’m right. She helps me into the dress, zipping it up with trembling fingers. She pins my hair up, leaving a few loose curls around my face. She applies the makeup that will mask my fear.

“You look beautiful,” she says, trying to smile.

The ceremony takes place in a sunroom at the back of the house. Glass walls overlook the Atlantic. The guests are seated in velvet chairs—maybe fifty people total. I recognize some faces from the gala. Others are strangers, men with hard eyes and women with expensive jewelry.

Bratva.

Nikita stands at the front, waiting for me. He looks devastating in a black tuxedo, his hands clasped in front of him. He watches me walk down the aisle, his expression unreadable.

I take slow breaths, counting the steps. One. Two. Three.

I reach him, and he offers me his arm. I take it, my fingers gripping the expensive fabric of his sleeve.

The officiant begins to speak. Words about love and commitment and eternity. They sound like a bad joke.