Forced Curvy Bride of the Bratva Underboss

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.”

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.

Why does Nikita have it?

“Freya?” Marcus’s voice cuts through the haze, sounding concerned. “You look pale.”

Nikita’s arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against him. It’s not a supportive gesture. It’s possessive. It’s a cage. His grip is firm, his fingers digging into my hip bone hard enough to bruise.

“She’s just overwhelmed,” Nikita says smoothly, not taking his eyes off me. The steel gray is burning, searching my face for any crack. “It’s a lot to take in. The ring, the news… we haven’t even told our families yet.”

He lifts the silver band with the black stone, holding it up for the room to see.

“I was going to save this for the private reception,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, designed just for me, even though everyone is listening. “Since my future wife is so eager to share our life with the world…”

He brings out a small velvet box, and reveals another ring. This one is pale gold encrusted with tiny diamonds.

Nikita brings the ring to my finger. I can’t breathe, my eyes watching his hands as they move.

If Ayaan is dead, that ring is a trophy. If he’s alive, this is a hostage situation.

Either way, I’m trapped.

He slides the ring onto my finger. It’s cold and wrong. It belongs on Ayaan’s hand. It doesn’t belong here, on me, in this hellhole of a gala surrounded by monsters in suits.

The applause is thunderous. I don’t hear it. I only hear the rushing of blood in my ears.

Nikita leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. The heat of him sears my skin, contrasting violently with the ice in my veins.

“You started this war, darling,” he whispers, using a term of endearment that sounds like a curse. “Now you have to finish it.”

He tightens his hold on my waist, anchoring me to him.

I stare at the ring on my finger, then at Ayaan’s ring on Nikita’s finger. The black stone staring back at me like a dead eye. The questions are screaming now, louder than the cameras, louder than the applause.

I look up at Nikita, meeting his gaze with everything I have left. He smiles that cold, calculated smile, and raises his glass to the room.