Page 7 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Curiosity?

She doesn’t understand what just happened. I’ve given her a puzzle she can’t solve, and now she has to stay close to me to find the pieces.

Perfect.

“Smile, Freya,” I murmur, keeping the smile plastered on my face. “You wanted to be the center of attention. Here it is.”

She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then her lips curl into a smile that looks more like a snarl. She lifts her chin, defiance blazing in her eyes.

Oh, she’s going to be fun to break.

“To the happy couple!” someone shouts from the back.

Champagne corks pop. The music swells. The world moves on, already forgetting the scandal, obsessed with the wedding.

I keep my hand on her waist, my fingers digging in possessively. She can’t escape. She’s mine now.

The best part? She walked right into the cage herself.

Chapter Three - Freya

The door to my apartment clicks shut, and for the first time in hours, the noise stops. I lean back against the wood paneling, letting out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped in my lungs since the moment Nikita Gromov stepped into my orbit.

I kick off my heels, one by one. They land with a heavy thud on the hardwood floor. My feet throb, but the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the mess inside my head.

I walk to the floor-length mirror in the hallway, barely recognizing the woman staring back. The emerald dress is still perfect, the makeup still intact, but my eyes… they look haunted.

I look at my hand.

The ring sits there, heavy and pale.

“Ayaan,” I whisper, the sound barely audible.

I twist the metal, trying to pull it off. It slides over my knuckle but gets stuck at the base, stubborn and tight. I tug harder, wincing as the metal bites into my skin, but it refuses to budge. It’s like it’s fused to me. A brand.

I stop trying and let my hand drop.

The logic is cold and undeniable. Ayaan never took that ring off. It was a gift from our father before he died. If Nikita had it, Ayaan isn’t just missing. He’s gone. Or worse—he’s a trophy.

Then, why the show? Why the engagement? If he’s dead, there’s no sense keeping me alive. Unless…

Unless Ayaan isn’t dead.

The thought hits me so hard I have to grip the edge of the console table to steady myself. If Ayaan is alive, and Nikita has his ring, then he’s a prisoner. Or a traitor. Or leverage.

My heart hammers against my ribs. This isn’t over. It’s not even close.

I stride into the kitchen, needing to move, needing to do something to burn off the adrenaline. I rip the dress off, letting it pool on the floor, and pull on an oversized sweater from the dryer. Then I pace the length of the living room, replaying the night in my head.

He didn’t panic when I confronted him. He didn’t even get angry. He just… adapted. He took the hit I landed and turned it into a win. He took my exposé, my moment of triumph, and rewrote the script so thoroughly that I ended up playing the lead in his twisted fairy tale.

Damage control. That’s what it was. Pure, strategic damage control. By announcing our engagement, he made my article look like the work of a scorned lover rather than an investigative journalist. He invalidated my credibility in a single sentence. If I deny it now, I look unhinged. If I confirm it, I’m trapped in his narrative.

He boxed me in. Socially, professionally, emotionally.

God, he’s smart. Smarter than I gave him credit for. I thought I was hunting a monster, but I walked right into the spider’s web. Now, I’m wearing the ring to prove it.

The buzzer rings, startling a yelp out of me.