Chapter 7 Nadya
NADYA
The venue is beautiful.
Of course it is.
The top floor of the hotel has been cleared and transformed into an open-air rooftop ceremony space, framed by glass barriers and sleek modern lights that glow softly against the darkening sky.
A scattering of white flowers lines the edges, understated and sophisticated, and the cool evening air smells faintly of jasmine and expensive champagne.
It’s everything most people would kill for.
And I hate every second of it.
I walk slowly beside Konstantin, keeping my hands folded tightly in front of me, my face calm even though every step feels like a funeral march.
The guests gathered under the wide-open sky turn to watch us, eyes assessing, greedy.
A mix of Bratva power players, businessmen, and the occasional desperate hanger-on who bought a ticket to my misery.
When I was younger—before everything went sideways—I pictured something small. Intimate. A garden maybe, flowers everywhere, just a few people I trusted standing nearby. Nothing grand, nothing flashy. Something real.
But real was a fantasy I stopped believing in a long time ago.
Especially when I found out I was pregnant and completely alone.
For the longest time, when I still lived across the ocean, I let myself believe that the man I’d spent that one stolen night with might have been different. That maybe—if I could find him, if I could tell him—he would care. He’d want to know.
I even dreamed about it once—me, showing up somewhere with a ring on my finger, a quiet little ceremony where he pulled me close and promised me I wasn’t alone anymore.
Back then, I only knew him by the name he gave me—Mikhail.
Just Mikhail.
It wasn’t until after I came to America, after the twins were born, after I built a fragile new life for us, that I stumbled across his real identity by accident.
Konstantin Buryakov. The bastard son of one of the most powerful and blood-soaked Bratva families in the world.
When I pieced it together, I didn’t even think about reaching out. I didn’t want my kids dragged into this. I wouldn’t let them grow up shadowed by the same darkness that hung around men like him.
The irony is almost laughable, as I stand here in a white dress, preparing to sign away my freedom to the very man I spent years running from. The man who never even knew he left something behind.
The table is set at the far edge of the rooftop, white linen draped over it, two polished chairs pulled up neatly on either side. A civil official in a dark suit stands beside it, a leather folder tucked under his arm, his expression detached and professional.
Konstantin is already standing next to me, close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough that when the breeze stirs the hem of my dress, it brushes against his leg. He hasn’t spoken since we stepped out of the car. He hasn’t needed to.
His presence says everything.
I’m not getting out of this. Not tonight.
Not ever.
The official clears his throat, motioning for us to sit.
I grip the fabric of my dress, forcing my face into something neutral, something cold, and move toward the chair.
Konstantin moves too, his hand coming to the small of my back, guiding me with a firm pressure that makes my skin jump.
I whip my head toward him, glaring, but he only smirks, the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth, as if daring me to say something here in front of everyone.
Bastard.
I sit down hard in the chair, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck, and he lowers himself into the seat beside me with all the lazy grace of a man who owns everything in his reach—including me.
The official lays out the documents in front of us, a pen placed neatly above each.
The moment the ceremony ends, Konstantin steps away without a word.
I stand alone, feeling the weight of too many stares, too many whispers sliding through the warm evening air. I clutch the small bag someone shoved into my hands earlier, my fingers tightening around it like it’s a lifeline.
The rooftop is crowded now. Waiters move quietly between the groups, offering champagne and small plates, but the real business of the evening is the conversations—the alliances forming, the silent calculations being made.
A few people approach me first.
A woman in a red dress, all smiles, congratulates me with the kind of polished venom that makes it clear she’s already ranking me lower than dirt.
Two older men shake my hand like they’re buying livestock, their eyes lingering too long, their compliments coated in grease.
I smile politely, say the right things, and move on before I gag.
I don’t belong here, and they know it.
I hover near the edge of the terrace, feigning interest in the view, doing my best to avoid the steady stream of strangers offering brittle congratulations and plastic smiles.
I turn, ready to retreat toward the far end of the terrace where it’s quieter, when a woman steps into my path.
She’s tall, statuesque, wearing a floor-length red gown that clings to her surgically perfect body. Diamonds glitter at her neck and ears. Her blonde hair is pinned back so tightly it looks painful.
Two younger men flank her—both dark haired, both good-looking, though in very different ways. One of them, slightly taller and broader, grips a half-empty champagne glass with a lazy, careless smile.
“Well,” the woman says, her voice dripping with polished amusement, “aren’t you a pretty addition.”
I stiffen slightly, offering a cautious smile. “Thank you,” I say, not quite sure how to respond.
The woman steps closer, extending a manicured hand. “Ludmila,” she says. “And these are my sons—Roman and Alexei.”
I blink, trying to process the introduction, glancing between the two young men and then back at her.
Roman—the one with the sloppy grin—gives me an exaggerated bow. Alexei simply nods, more reserved.
“I don’t think Konstantin told her about us,” Alexei says with a small smile.
Ludmila narrows her eyes at her son before turning to me.
“I’m sorry…” I say, not knowing what else to say.
“I’m his stepmother, Dmitry’s wife,” Ludmila finally says as if she’s tired of me already.
“Welcome to the family, sister-in-law,” Alexei says, his words sounding genuine. I like this one.
“So you’re the prize,” Roman says, smiling wide enough to show the edges of his teeth. “Not bad, considering the bastard had to pay to find a wife.”
The insult is tossed out casually, but it slices all the same.
I don’t like Konstantin. I don’t trust him. But hearing someone else spit on him like that—even his own blood—makes my chest tighten with something ugly.
I smile sweetly, tilting my head. “At least he can afford what he wants,” I say coolly.
Roman’s grin drops instantly, his face flushing an ugly red.
Before he can spit something back, the other brother—Alexei—steps forward smoothly. “Ignore him,” he says easily, flashing me a real smile. “Roman’s had too much to drink. He talks more when he’s trying to forget he peaked at nineteen.”
Roman mutters under his breath and stumbles away toward the bar, Ludmila following with an exasperated sigh and a flick of her hand, like she’s swatting at an annoying fly.
Alexei stays. He extends a hand again, properly this time, with a smile that feels far too genuine for a place like this.
“Alexei Buryakov,” he says. “It’s good to meet you. Finally.”
I shake his hand cautiously, still a little off-balance from the last few minutes.
“You too,” I say, wary but polite.
“You handled that well,” he says, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “Better than most would.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, unsure if it’s a compliment or a warning.
He lets go of my hand and steps back with a half smirk. “You’ll need a thick skin around here. Just a friendly warning.”
Alexei stays by my side longer than I expect, making polite conversation, his manner easy and relaxed in a way most people here aren’t.
He’s handsome—sharper in the jawline than Roman, with clear gray eyes that miss nothing. He carries himself like someone born into this world but smart enough not to flaunt it.
And despite myself, I find I don’t mind talking to him.
He asks me about where I’m from, the questions casual, not invasive, and somehow without the underlying judgment I expect. I give him vague answers, careful not to say too much.
“So,” he says, glancing around the rooftop like he’s surveying a battlefield. “First impressions?”
I arch a brow, wary. “Of what? The people or the ceremony?”
He grins. “Both. Though I wouldn’t blame you if you’re wondering when the ritual sacrifice starts.”
I blink, caught off guard—and then a laugh slips out before I can stop it.
Alexei grins, clearly pleased he got that reaction out of me. “Careful,” he says, his tone teasing. “Smile too much and they’ll think you actually want to be here.”
I shake my head slightly, trying to suppress the lingering smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
It’s a light moment, so normal it feels out of place in a night like this. For a few seconds, it almost feels like I can breathe.
From the corner of my eye, I see the crowd subtly parting, conversations faltering. A ripple through the rooftop that doesn’t need an announcement to make its presence known.
I turn—and there he is.
Konstantin.
Alexei notices too. He doesn’t stiffen or move away. Instead, he raises his glass lazily as Konstantin approaches, like he’s saluting a friend rather than greeting a brother with a fistful of tension already crackling between them.
“Brother,” Alexei says smoothly. “I was just keeping your bride entertained. Didn’t want her to die of boredom before the ink dried.”
Konstantin doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes stay on me—hard, unblinking, burning straight through the easy facade I’m trying desperately to keep up.
“You missed some very educational conversation,” Alexei adds, smiling.
Konstantin doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t even glance at Alexei properly.