Fake Dating the Bratva Bully (Bratva Pregnancy Fantasies #4)

Chapter 1

ONE

Callista

I’m smiling through a heart attack.

The little organ in my chest thumps like a dying animal, railing against my ribcage. Blood is rushing to my ears, so much so that I can’t hear the music around me.

My fingers tighten on the banister as I stare down at the party beneath me. There are students all around me on the first floor, chatting, flirting, trying to get laid. The doors of most of the rooms are closed, showing that they’re occupied.

I scan the faces. Most of them look happy. Every now and then, somebody taps me on the shoulder and tells me this is the best party they’ve been to.

This is it.

It’s the day of all my blood, sweat, and tears culminating into the biggest event in Allister College’s social calendar—the Kappa House annual welcome party.

Any senior who is invited knows they’re lucky.

We only invite seniors who have shown promise during their college career.

Most of them are members of other sororities or fraternities, but since I became president, I decided to invite non-members, too.

I want everybody in college to see it as a social club that they need to work hard to get into.

“Callista, this is amazing. Never thought I’d be drinking champagne at a college party. Real classy stuff.” Boyle, the captain of the hockey team, grins at me. He’s huge, and alarmingly attractive in the way only a jock can be.

“Thanks. Have you tried the hors d'oeuvres? They’re great, too.”

“I did try them.” Boyle smiles. “I couldn’t tell what was in them, but they’re the best thing I’ve eaten. This isn’t like a regular party. It’s way better. All the girls are hot.”

I cough. Thankfully, he isn’t flirting with me tonight.

His gaze lands on Jennifer Martin, the treasurer.

She is wearing a satin mini-dress, looking like she stepped out of an old money catalogue.

Her blonde hair is straight and shiny. She fought me tooth and nail about inviting athletes like Boyle, who aren’t part of Greek life, but he’s big around campus, and his dad is a coach who often throws parties.

I need them as my future clients, which is why I invited them.

Of course, I didn’t tell Jennifer that. I told her he was popular and respected on campus, and our party would be the talk of the town if he came.

Jennifer notices and walks up, just as I tell Boyle. “Jennifer didn’t want me to invite you. Maybe stay away from her.”

Jennifer’s eyes widen, and she squeaks in embarrassment. I guess having the attention of a hot jock is making her reconsider her stance.

She tightens her hold on a glass of wine. “I was against inviting Boyle, true, but after seeing how much he and the others you invited are contributing to the atmosphere of the event, I have changed my mind.”

Ha. It feels good to have her acknowledge that I was right.

That makes my day.

Boyle puts his arm around her shoulder, and they drift away. I stand a little bit straighter. Things are going well. But I can’t fight the doubt at the back of my mind.

Today is all about showing the world what I can do. I, Callista Vale, will go down in sorority history as the best president and event organizer. Future generations will try to live up to my legend.

Glory aside, the real reason I’m doing this is that all these students and their parents could become potential future clients.

After I graduate, I’ll start my own event management company. I’m going to become independent from my father, show the world that Callista Vale is a woman of substance. I’m more than my tainted last name. I’m smart, competent, and hardworking.

My chest tightens when a tall, dark figure strides in through the doors.

He’s wearing nondescript clothes: a black sweatshirt, black slacks, black shoes.

The sleeves are rolled up to reveal muscled forearms and a hint of a tattoo.

Silver-framed glasses are perched on his nose.

His face is perfect, like a Greek sculpture, though his mouth is twisted into a scowl.

Despite wearing clothes that are meant to hide him, he stands out because of his height.

My gaze sticks to him like bubblegum to concrete. He’s magnetic, like he was born to command a room, born to rule an empire.

I invited Dmitry Antonov, but I didn’t think he’d actually come.

He’s an honors student. A genius who has the best grades in accounting and who won the Dean’s award for creating a new system for online accounting.

He’s not the type who parties. He’s a recluse and prefers to stay away from social events.

But I’ve heard the rumors that his family is related to the Russian mafia. Once, someone told me there’s a secret society at Allister that recruits people to join the mafia, and he’s the organizer.

A shiver trembles up my spine. Something about him makes my body tense. But not in fear. In anticipation.

When he looks up, his eyes meet mine, like he knows I’ve been staring at him. Like he felt my gaze.

I turn away, unable to withstand the intensity of his gaze. He can strip a person naked with those steely eyes of his. There’s no warmth in them.

I feel suddenly restless, so I resort to greeting people.

“Welcome, welcome—make yourselves at home,” I sing, gliding through the upper floor.

My heels don’t wobble. My dainty golden necklaces don’t shift.

My dress—a champagne silk slip that cost far more than it looks—falls just right.

I hug, I air-kiss, I field compliments about the charcuterie boards as if I assembled them myself.

The Kappa house is a chandelier of sound.

Ice clinks, laughter glittering in shards.

Someone plugged in the string lights I ordered, and the whole room turns soft and expensive, like a magazine photo I crawled inside.

I belong here. I always belong here. Everyone expects Callista Vale to know what she’s doing, to know what’s next, to know who’s worth knowing.

I am a compass and a brand and a rumor you can’t kill.

My phone buzzes in my palm. I glance down at the screen in the shadow between the foyer and the staircase. My frantic heart nearly stops. This is the bad news I’ve been avoiding all day.

Dad: We’ll “revisit the budget” next semester. Focus on your grades and image.

Translation: He cut me off.

I smile bigger, so my face doesn’t break in half.

My Dad and I have a strained relationship.

My mom ran away with another man, and since then, he has resented me because I look like her.

Things got worse when he married a younger, prettier woman and had kids with my step-mom.

My step-mom absolutely hates me and sees me as competition for his attention.

Over the years, she has poisoned his mind.

First, he shipped me off to a boarding school.

Then he wouldn’t even visit. Now he thinks I’m a spendthrift with a shopping addiction just because I spent a thousand dollars to buy stuff for a charity event I was hosting that was going to benefit war veterans.

My step-mom hates that I have better style, better taste, and better looks, so she lies to my Dad that I’m wasting money on expensive designer clothes.

He doesn’t even care if it’s true, because deep down, he resents me. That means I’m going to have to spend this semester living on almost nothing.

I should be used to it, to his anger, to his neglect, to his hate. But it plunges into my chest like a knife every time, cutting me deep, making me feel unloved and unwanted.

Suddenly, the social success means nothing, and I’m back to being a little girl, clinging to my father, begging him not to send me away to boarding school, telling him I’ll be a good girl.

And watching my step-mother laugh in that shrill voice of hers as she reminds me that my step-siblings don’t like me, and they don’t need me around.

My knees tremble and I dash for the bathroom. But I’m caught on the way by one of the girls.

“Cal! The florals are perfection,” Lila trills, sliding an arm through mine. Her perfume is gardenia and envy. “And the donors from the alumni board love you. You got the Merton twins to RSVP to the gala? How?”

“Asked nicely,” I say, voice airy. “And threatened to seat them by the bathrooms.”

My cheekbones ache from being convincing. I slip down the hall and into the far bathroom, the one with the dimmer on the sconce.

The lock clicks. I press my back to the door and let it all drop, the smile, the pose, the choreography. For a second, I’m just a girl in a dress, breathing too fast.

I grip the vanity and bow my head. The polished marble is cold beneath my palms. The room hushes. I count my breaths like rosary beads.

You’re fine. You’ll fix it. You always fix it.

Except that a leak in the hull is still a leak.

I unscrew a lipstick I don’t need and stare at the bullet like it can redraw my life.

In the mirror, a perfect stranger blinks back: glossy hair pinned in a sharp French twist; silk skimming a body trained into obedience.

I feel like I’m pretending to be something I’m not.

My father is a lawyer. We’re not rich. When my parents were married, he didn’t make much.

He got a few promotions when I was in middle school and high school, so we’re upper-middle-class.

I know I’m lucky to have grown up with financial stability, but most people at Allister are far more privileged than I am.

Their parents own private jets and multi-million dollar mansions.

They’re the kind of people who I want to organize events for, the kind of people who would pay me big money to do something I love doing.

But fitting in with them means wearing a mask, presenting a facade of affluence that may not always be true.

My eyes sting. I blink hard. Tears wobble, betray me, spill anyway.

No. Not now. Not today.