Page 32 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

As becomes swiftly clear to me, that’s one hell of a front. At least if the way several members of staff—including the ones with guns in their holsters—recoil at the way her eyes bulge with fury is anything to go by.

“Good morning,” I greet politely.

“I asked a question.” Her mouth twists in a sneer. It’s the only part of her face that moves, not cosmetically plumped and frozen in place.

“I assumed it was rhetorical, Galina.”

My mistake. I see that her eyelids move fine as well, despite what appears to have been a severe brow-lift procedure, because they narrow dangerously at me. “Yes. Your presumption appears to be the problem at hand.”

“A problem?” I ask. “I wasn’t aware you and I had a problem, Galina.”

“Now you are,” she snaps. “What do you think you’re doing with—” She gestures broadly around the paraphernalia. “—all of this?”

I stare at her. “I thought it was self-explanatory. I’m giving this place a facelift,” I say, choosing words pointedly.

She can blame her son for my inability to suffer any fools this morning. It doesn’t help her case that she has his mouth—and the same infuriating expression when it twists, like she’s bitten into a lemon.

I look away. My gaze returns to Filip, who’s doing a splendid job of pretending like he isn’t hearing any part of this exchange. He may as well be birdwatching. It’s as much his grounded disposition as it is years of working with me. He doesn’t miss a single beat before snapping to attention, ever. Now is no exception.

“Just follow me. The east wing, first.” That’s where my dear husband’s study is, I’ve discovered, after some recon. “You can lay everything out in—” I turn to Galina, smiling coolly. “What’s the largest room on the ground floor?”

Her eyes harden the same way her son’s do. “The drawing room,” she answers past a jaw locked with overt fury. I can appreciate that, even through her absolute disdain for me, this woman answers politely. Not everyone can manage that.

Besides, it’s just smart to not make another enemy in this place.

I decide to extend an olive branch. “Would you like to come with? I’m sure I can use some input.”

That’s a lie. I’ve never in my life, not even as a toddler, gotten dressed and required assistance with aesthetics. I know my mind; I always have. But swallowing pride is a core component of extending an olive branch.

Not that she takes it.

Stiff with indignation, Galina says, “You can’t just do whatever you’d like to this place. There is history here. This manor has looked this way for sixty years. You—”

“Yes. I can tell.”

Sharply, her head cants. “You have been in this house for less than twenty-four hours.”

“True,” I chirp.

“Yet you believe it entitles you to—”

“I believe,” I intercept, unflinching, “that your son has brought me into this house. His house, yes? That’s how the system works. I am the new Mrs. Zakharov. That entitles me to run this household. Therefore, it is under my purview to redecorate as I see fit.”

Anything else you’d like, you can let anyone know. It’ll be arranged for you, Anton said to me last night.

“Your son said it’s fine,” I translate for Galina.

I’ve got her in a spot, and we both know it. The silence that fills the space between her and me is thick with scorn, as is her right. But I’ve learned, over the years, that it’s a power move in itself not to fight silence. It can be a real tool.

It works. I see it as her mouth presses into a hard line, and she takes a beat to rein in her umbrage. Despite the rigidity that lingers in the set of her shoulders, Galina releases a breath. It’s with control and grace that she points at the nearest swatch of fabric—a punchy, garish purple velvet—and says, “Over my dead body. That’s hideous.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “No, it isn’t.” Yes, it is. “It’s for Anton’s study.”

“The study is paneled,” she argues, blinking at me like I’m stupid.

“In a shit-colored shade of brown. Picture the velvet on a chaise. I’m not taking away the paneling.”

“That can be stripped and re-stained, dear. It doesn’t need to be countered with fabric that belongs in a seedy establishment.” Galina waves me off with a skeletal hand. It’s the only part of her, to my eye, that actually tells her age. Whoever’s responsible for her cosmetic work has been incredibly thorough; I’ll give her that. She looks like the most recent iteration of Demi Moore. “This is not a strip club.”