Page 43 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

This isn’t a place I can walk out of just because I want to.

My chest tightens at the thought.

Ashley.

My phone.

My life.

She must be worried by now.

I try to imagine her face when she realizes I haven’t come back or responded.

Ashley doesn’t panic easily—but she notices everything. She would’ve called me already. Texted. Probably shown up at my apartment with snacks and loud complaints.

Except I’m not there.

I press my fingers into my palm.

This is wrong.

Allof it is wrong.

I turn away from the window and walk slowly across the living room again.

The space is too big.

Too quiet.

Every step echoes, like even sound behaves differently here.

I stop near the center of the room and look around again, as if something might suddenly make sense if I stare long enough.

It doesn’t.

I sink onto the edge of the couch, my hands curling loosely in my lap.

Think.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

Think, like Papa taught me.

But every time I try, my thoughts circle back to the same place.

Why me?

Why marriage?

Why him?

Why this?

My mind refuses to stay still for long.

It drifts instead—back to his face.

Cold eyes.