Page 1 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Chapter One - Freya

The crystal chandelier above the Manhattan ballroom doesn’t just sparkle; it glares. A thousand shards of light refracting off diamonds, champagne flutes, and the hollow smiles of New York’s elite. It’s blinding, but I don’t blink. I can’t afford to.

I take a slow breath, the silk of my emerald dress cool against my skin, and step into the fray. It’s been months since I’ve shown my face at an event like this. My social media has been quiet, my influencer status on hiatus while the internet tore itself apart over the story I broke. The story that ruined a reputation.

The Gromov Connection.

It was supposed to be a hit. A calculated, surgical strike. I traced the money, found the shell companies, and dumped the data to the press. I wanted the world to know that Nikita Gromov, the charming, philanthropic “businessman,” was nothing more than a front for the Bratva. I wanted him exposed.

I didn’t expect him to just… shrug it off.

The room is packed, a sea of tuxedos and evening gowns, the air thick with expensive perfume and the low hum of power. Investors, tech moguls, politicians—and the quieter ones. The ones who stand in the shadows, watch the exits, and don’t drink the champagne. I know they’re here. I know he’s here.

I scan the crowd, my heart hammering a rhythm against my ribs that has nothing to do with the orchestra in the corner. I rehearsed this. I played the conversation in my head a thousand times while staring at my bedroom ceiling. I would find him, look him in the eye, and demand to know what he did with Ayaan.

It’s been two years of silence since my brother called me, voice trembling, telling me he was in deep. Not just debt—danger. Danger from men who didn’t care about credit scores. Men who collected in blood.

The Bratva.

Then he vanished. No body, no funeral, just a gaping hole in my life where my big brother used to be.

I spent the first year crying. The second year hunting. When I finally found that thread, that financial lifeline tying Ayaan’s disappearance to a shell company owned by Gromov Holdings, I stopped crying and started plotting. Exposing Nikita isn’t about justice for the world. It’s about flushing him out.

“Freya! You made it!”

A voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn, pasting on a smile that feels tight on my face. It’s Marcus, a tech investor I’ve worked with before. Beside him is a woman in a gown that costs more than my car, and a couple of other faces I recognize from society pages.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I lie, smooth and effortless.

I slip into the role easily. The confident, curvy socialite. The girl who has it all together. They don’t see the desperation rotting me from the inside out. They just see the dress and the smile.

“We were just talking about your… hiatus,” Marcus says, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. “Quite the article you wrote. Bold move.”

I stiffen slightly but keep my posture relaxed. “Just doing my due diligence. Transparency is important, isn’t it?”

The woman laughs, a tinkling sound that grates on my nerves. “Oh, honey, in this town? Transparency is just a weapon you use on your enemies.”

I’m about to deflect, to steer the conversation toward safer waters, when the temperature in the room seems to drop. It’s not the air-conditioning. It’s a shift in the pressure. The low hum of conversation near the entrance falters for a fraction of a second before resuming at a higher pitch.

I know what that is. I know who it is before I even turn around.

I feel him before I see him. A presence that cuts through the noise like a knife. It’s a physical weight, pressing against my back. I don’t jump—I force myself to stay planted, to keep my eyes on Marcus, but my senses are screaming.

Then, the scent hits me. Leather and cedar, with something sharp underneath. Gun oil? No, just… coldness. Clean, dangerous coldness.

“My apologies for interrupting,” a voice says from over my shoulder.

It’s low, smooth, and terrifyingly calm. It’s the voice of a man who never has to raise his volume to be heard.

I turn, slowly, deliberately. Then I lock eyes with Nikita Gromov.

Up close, he’s worse than the photos. He’s taller than I expected, lean but coiled with energy. He’s not wearing a tuxedo, thank God. Instead, he’s in a tailored leather jacket over a crisp black shirt, open at the collar. It’s rebellious but expensive. The kind of rebellion you can’t buy in regular stores.

His dark brown hair falls just slightly over his forehead, softening the sharp angles of his face, but it doesn’t fool me. His eyes—the color of storm clouds, steel-gray and unreadable—are fixed on mine. He’s not looking at the group, just me.

The air suddenly feels too thin. I straighten my spine, lifting my chin. This is it. This is the confrontation I wanted.

“Nikita,” I say, his name tasting like ash on my tongue. “I didn’t think you’d show your face after the exposé.”