I barely have time to react before she’s pulling the gown down my body, leaving me in nothing but my underwear. The chill of the air-conditioned room brushes against my skin, but the unease crawling up my spine has nothing to do with the temperature.
Natasha turns away briefly, sorting through the rack of gowns, muttering something about how I need something more sophisticated, lessAmerican princess.
Then, offhandedly—like she’s commenting on the weather—she says, “A futurePakhan’swife must look perfect.”
My stomach tightens.
Future what?
I blink at her. “A future what?”
Natasha pauses, then glances at me like I just admitted I don’t know how to breathe.
“Pakhan,” she repeats. “You do not know this word?”
I shake my head, my pulse kicking up for reasons I don’t fully understand. “No.Should I?”
She exhales as if she expected me to be more prepared for this. As if I should already know what I’m walking into.
“Pakhan,” she explains, folding a dress over her arm, “is leader. The top of Bratva. The one who controls everything.”
The word Bratva feels like a gunshot in my ears.
My breath catches. “Bratva? As in—?”
“As in Russian mafia, yes,” Natasha says plainly, not even lowering her voice.
I stare at her, heart pounding, the silk of the discarded dress pooling at my feet.
No. No, that can’t be right.
Konstantin Belov is a businessman. A billionaire. Ruthless, yes. Dangerous, absolutely. But Bratva?
I swallow hard. “He never told me that.”
Natasha tilts her head slightly, like she finds that amusing. “Men like Mr. Belov do not need to say such things. It is understood.”
The room suddenly feels smaller. The walls press in. The weight of this conversation settles heavily on my bare skin.
I’m marrying into the Bratva.
Before I can fully process that thought, a deep voice cuts through the air.
“You’ve spoken too much, Natasha.”
The sound of him stops my breath cold.
Natasha goes rigid.
I don’t turn immediately. I feel him before I see him—the shift in the air, the heavy presence that commands the room without trying.
Slowly, I pivot toward the doorway.
Konstantin Belov stands there, watching me.
His suit is perfectly tailored, his broad frame filling the space with effortless dominance. But it’s his eyes that pin me in place—they shift between silver and blue, unreadable, assessing.
I’m half-dressed, stripped down to nothing but lingerie, my vulnerability on full display. But it’s not modesty that makes my pulse hammer—it’s the way he looks at me like he owns me already.
