Page 58 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

I’m lying on a soft, plush chaise lounge. The air is cool, smelling heavily of white roses and melting wax. The harsh, suffocating grip on my wrists and ankles is gone, replaced by a strange, light freedom.

I blink, trying to focus on my own body.

A sickening wave of revulsion hits me instantly, so violent my stomach physically recoils. I’m not wearing my office clothes. The tailored slacks and simple silk blouse are gone.

Instead, I’m draped in heavy, cascading layers of silk and lace. It’s a dress. A luxurious, floor-length white gown with intricate beadwork tracing the corset and a sweetheart neckline that leaves my collarbones completely bare.

My skin crawls, a visceral, shuddering heat rising under my flesh. The realization settles into my bones like ice water: He touched me.

While I was unconscious, helpless and dead to the world, Daniel stripped away my clothes. He touched my skin, lifted my limbs, and dressed me in this heavy, pristine white garment. The sheer violation of it makes me want to scream, to tear the fabric off my body until my hands bleed.

I force myself to breathe, pressing my palms against the plush velvet of the lounge to steady my shaking frame.

I look around the room, and the horror only deepens.

This isn’t the study. This is a much larger room, possibly an old ballroom or drawing-room within the estate. The windows are boarded up from the inside, but the space is illuminated by dozens of flickering pillar candles arranged in precise, concentric circles on the floor.

Huge, overflowing vases of white roses—some fresh, some already bruised and wilting at the edges—line the perimeter of the room. At the far end, beneath a draped archway of white tulle, sits a small table holding two crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne.

It’s arranged with terrifying, obsessive symmetry.

It’s a ceremony.

A cold sweat breaks out across my forehead as the final, sickening piece of his delusion falls into place. He isn’t just keeping me here. He isn’t just hiding me.

Daniel is staging a wedding.

He’s built a chapel out of a madman’s fantasy, and I’m the captive bride.

I slowly slide my legs off the chaise lounge, my bare feet touching the cold hardwood floor. The heavy satin of the skirt rustles loudly in the quiet room. I need to move. I need to find a weapon, an exit, anything, before he walks back through that door to claim his vows.

The rustle of the heavy satin is still echoing in my ears when the double doors at the far end of the room swing open.

Daniel steps inside.

My breath hitches. He’s dressed in a tailored black tuxedo, his hair neatly styled, a white rose pinned to his lapel. The manic, tearful rage from before is entirely gone, replaced by a terrifying, serene euphoria. His eyes shine with a glassy, devout light as he looks at me, taking in the sight of the white dress.

“Perfect,” he breathes, his voice a soft, reverent whisper that makes my stomach turn. “You look absolutely perfect, Ashley. Just like I always knew you would.”

He walks toward me slowly, holding out his hands as if we are meeting at the altar of a church, entirely ignoring the boarded-up windows and the cold reality of my captivity. “A new beginning. The start of the rest of our lives. No more lies, no more distractions. Just us, committing to what was always written.”

The sheer madness of it snaps something inside me. The fear translates instantly into hot, blinding fury.

“Get away from me!” I scream, backing away from him, my bare feet slipping slightly on the polished floor. I grab a heavy brass candleholder from a nearby table, my fingers white-knuckled around the cold metal. “Do not come near me! This is sick. You are sick!”

Daniel’s smile doesn’t falter, but a flicker of irritation crosses his eyes. “Ashley, don’t ruin this moment. We’ve fought so hard to get here—”

“We didn’t fight for anything!” I screech, lunging sideways as he reaches for me. I swing the brass candleholder with all the strength I have left. The metal cuts through the air, but he ducks, his hand flashing out to grab my wrist.

The grip is iron. I thrash against him, kicking out with my bare feet, the heavy satin of the gown tangling around my legs. “Let me go! Let me go, you psycho!” I claw at his face with my free hand, my nails digging into his cheek until I draw blood.

He grunts, the pain finally cracking his fragile composure.

With a sudden, violent heave, he shoves me backward. I hit the chaise lounge hard, the breath knocked out of my lungs, the brass candleholder clattering to the floor. Before I can scramble up, Daniel is hovering over me, pinning my shoulders down. The serenity is gone, replaced by a dark, lethal vacancy in his eyes.

He reaches into his jacket. A silver blade catches the light of the flickering candles, the sharp edge resting directly against the hollow of my throat.

The cold metal bites into my skin.