Page 66 of Betrayal and Vows

It’s my duty as her daughter to protect her from her horrible fashion missteps.

“What is that?” I take a physical step back from the hideous dress.

"Mikhail has chosen this for you," she says with a tight, humorless smile, holding it out like she's offering a gift and not a curse.

I have to believe it’s a joke.

Mikhail would want me to look nice—not like a woman that makes her money on a pole.

"I'm already dressed." I motion toward the gown I'm wearing.

I happen to like my dress.

It’s modest.

Elegant.

Mine.

Mom doesn’t even look at it. “That one makes you look soft. He wants you to look valuable.”

Ah, there it is.

I blink at her, keeping my voice neutral. "You mean like a prized mare. Or a Maserati."

She steps forward and lays the dress across the bed. It's black. Tight. Backless. With a neckline that I hope comes with breast tape. It’s a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen. It looks like it came from a Vegas showroom, not the private dining room of the future king of the Bratva.

“You’ll wear it,” she says, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle. “You’re about to marry the next Pakhan. He will own you. Get used to it.”

There’s no venom in her tone. No comfort either. Just resignation, as though she's reciting something once told to her. Probably by my father.

“Mom—”

“Don’t,” she snaps. “We’ve been over this. Do what you're told. Play your part. Or you’ll get us all killed.”

Us. As if we’re a team. As if she hasn’t spent the last ten years preparing me to be a pawn.

“Why?” I ask softly. “My body will be on display. Doesn’t he want to hide what he thinks is his?”

The resignation in her eyes tells me exactly why he wants me in the dress.

I stare at the dress like it might bite me.

"Put it on," Mom says, her voice flat. "I have the tape."

Of course she does. She's thought of everything. Planned for my humiliation down to the last detail.

I take the dress to the bathroom and close the door. My hands shake as I unzip my beautiful gown—the one that made me feel elegant and confident. It pools at my feet like spilled ink.

The black monstrosity slides over my head like a second skin. The fabric is so thin I can see the outline of my nipples through it. The neckline plunges to my sternum, and the back is completely open, stopping just above the curve of my ass.

I can't wear anything underneath. Nothing. The dress clings to every curve, every line, leaving nothing to the imagination.

I look at myself in the mirror and want to vomit.

This isn't a dress. It's a statement. A declaration of ownership. A way to show every man in that room exactly what Mikhail possesses.

Mom knocks. "Are you decent?"