Page 2 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

He smiles. It’s not a nice smile. It’s the smile a predator gives prey that thinks it has a fighting chance. He steps into the circle, ignoring the others completely, and turns to face the room alongside me.

“And miss the opportunity to celebrate?” he says, his voice loud enough to carry, but pitched perfectly for the acoustics of the room.

He doesn’t give me a chance to respond. He doesn’t defend himself. He doesn’t deny the allegations. He does something infinitely worse.

He takes my hand.

I freeze. His grip is warm, his fingers long and slightly rough. He lifts my hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across my knuckles that makes my skin crawl even as my pulse spikes.

“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” Nikita announces to the room, his eyes sweeping over the crowd that has stopped to stare.

Cameras flash from the periphery, vultures sensing fresh meat.

“Freya’s recent article… it wasn’t an attack. It was a cry for attention.”

My jaw drops. I open my mouth to deny it, to scream that he’s lying, but he squeezes my hand. Hard. A warning.

“She’s been under so much stress lately,” he continues, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. He turns to me, his expression softening into something terrifyingly intimate. “Planning our wedding.”

The room erupts. I hear the click of a dozen phones being raised at once. The flash of strobe lights blinds me, a chaotic strobe effect that freezes the moment in jagged snapshots.

I try to pull my hand back, but he holds it firm, stepping closer until his side is pressed against mine. He leans in, his breath ghosting over my ear.

“Just play along,” he murmurs, the words rolling off his tongue like a threat. “Unless you want to explain to your friends why you’re lying?”

Panic claws at my throat. He’s boxed me in. If I deny it now, after his performance, I look unstable. I look like a jilted lover trying to sabotage him, or a crazy woman who can’t keep her stories straight. My credibility, my brand, everything I’ve built—it all shatters if I fight him here.

I hate him. I hate him so much it makes my teeth ache.

“Nikita,” I say through gritted teeth, forcing a smile that looks more like a grimace. “You have… quite the sense of humor.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against my shoulder. “You know I do.”

He turns back to the crowd, raising our joined hands high. “I know the rumors have been flying, but I wanted to set the record straight. Freya and I are engaged. We’ve been keeping it private, but… well, she’s fiery. She likes to keep me on my toes.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the room. They’re buying it. They’re actually buying it. The narrative has flipped in seconds. I’m not the brave truth-teller anymore. I’m the dramatic fiancée.

I’m going to be sick.

I look for an out, a way to spin this back, but my brain is short-circuiting. He’s too fast. He’s always been one step ahead, and now he’s miles away. I need to get out of here. I need to think.

I start to pull away again, preparing to make an excuse—a headache, nausea, anything to get away from the cameras and the suffocating heat of his body.

Then I see it.

He raises his left hand to adjust his collar, and the light catches on something dangling from his fingers. He’s holding it loosely, almost casually, like it’s a trinket he forgot he was holding.

My stomach drops. The room tilts on its axis.

It’s a ring.

It’s made of heavy silver, oxidized and dark, set with a large, smooth black stone. Onyx. I know every scratch on that band. I know the weight of it in my palm. I know the way it looked on Ayaan’s tanned hand. He has a small birthmark on his arm, a little dark mark almost the shade of the onyx itself.

The breath hitches in my throat, strangling my denial. Nikita stops moving, the ring still glinting in the harsh light. His eyes lock onto mine, and for the first time, the mask slips just a fraction. He sees my reaction. He sees that I see it.

Is Ayaan alive? Does Nikita know where he is?

The questions slam into me with enough force to make me sway. The anger drains away, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.