Page 5 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

"I'm not pursuing anything," I say, the lie smooth on my tongue. "I was simply curious about him. That's all."

My father studies me for a long moment, and I can see he doesn't believe me. But he also knows when to stop pushing. "Be careful, Daughter. Some men are not meant to be conquered."

I give him my most reassuring smile, the one that says I'm his obedient, sensible daughter. "Of course, Papa. I'm always careful."

But inside, my mind is already racing ahead. The tension between our families, the strained business relationship, the fact that Samuil won't be easily won. None of it discourages me. If anything, it makes the challenge more intriguing.

After lunch, I head upstairs to change. I pull on a soft cream cashmere sweater that drapes elegantly off one shoulder, paired with tailored navy trousers that hug my curves. Simple gold jewelry, my hair swept up in a loose twist. I'm meeting several young women from prominent Bratva families for afternoon tea, and I need to look effortlessly elegant. Not trying too hard, but still polished and put together.

The tea room is in a boutique hotel downtown, and it's beautiful, all cream and gold with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook manicured gardens. The afternoon sun streams through the glass, casting warm light across the polished hardwood floors and delicate furniture. There are five of us today, daughters of powerful men, and we sit around a low table laden with pastries and delicate China cups. The tea is Earl Grey, served in cups so thin you can see the light through the porcelain, and the pastries are from the French bakery on Fifth Avenue. Macarons in pastel colors, petit fours with intricate designs, and tiny chocolate eclairs that look almost too beautiful to eat are strategically placed to look both beautiful and appetizing.

The conversation starts predictably. Fashion, upcoming events, and gossip about who's sleeping with whom. I sip my tea and nod in the right places, playing my role. But then I steer it where I want it to go.

"I spoke with Pakhan Samuil Galkin last night," I say casually, selecting a lavender macaron from the tray. "At the gala. He's quite impressive."

The reaction is immediate. Three of the women exchange glances, and one of them actually laughs, a sharp sound that cuts through the refined atmosphere.

"Samuil Galkin?" The brunette to my left, daughter of a shipping magnate, shakes her head with a knowing smile. "Good luck with that, Ana."

"What do you mean?" I bite into the macaron, the delicate shell cracking between my teeth.

"He's rejected every woman who's ever approached him." Another woman, a redhead whose father controls half the construction in the city, leans forward with eager eyes. "And I mean every woman. Beautiful, wealthy, connected. Doesn't matter. He's not interested."

"Svetlana Petrova tried last year," the brunette adds, setting down her teacup with a delicate clink. "You know Svetlana. Gorgeous, educated, from one of the oldest families. She practically threw herself at him at a business dinner. Wore a dress that left nothing to the imagination, touched his arm every chance she got, and laughed at everything he said. He was polite, but he made it crystal clear he wasn't interested. She left in tears."

"And remember Irina?" another woman chimes in, a blonde with sharp features. "She sent him gifts for months. Expensive watches, rare vodka, even tickets to the opera. He returned everything with a polite note thanking her but declining. Every single gift."

"Maybe he prefers men," someone suggests, reaching for a petit four.

"No." The brunette is certain, shaking her head firmly. "My father's done business with him for years. He's just not interested in marriage. Or relationships. Or anything that doesn't involve his business and his power. He's married to the Bratva. That's what my father says."

I sip my tea, keeping my expression neutral, but inside, something shifts. For the first time, I realize that this might not be a game I can play and win.

"He's attractive, though," I say, testing the waters.

"Attractive?" The redhead laughs. "He's fucking gorgeous. But he's also forty-seven and has the emotional availability of a brick wall. Trust me, Anastasia. You're wasting your time."

They move on to other topics, but I'm barely listening. I've never failed at anything I've truly wanted. By the time I return home that evening, the sun is setting and my mind is made up. I change into comfortable clothes, black silk pajama pants and a matching camisole, my hair loose around my shoulders, and get comfortable on my bed.

I pick up my phone from the nightstand, the screen lighting up at my touch. My hands are steadier than I expected. It takes three calls, but I finally get what I need. The first call is to a friend whose brother works in telecommunications. The second is to a woman whose father handles security for several Pakhan families. The third is to someone I shouldn't be calling but who owes me a favor.

And then I have it. Samuil Galkin's private number. I stare at the number on my screen and smile. Everyone has always come to me. Men have pursued me, begged for my attention, done everything in their power to win my favor. But Samuil Galkin won't come to me. He's made that clear.

So I'll go to him.

I save the number in my phone under a simple initial. S. Nothing more. Then I set the phone down on my nightstand and walk to the window, looking out at the gardens below. The roses are in bloom, red and white and pink, and the evening air is cool against the glass. The sky is painted in shades of orange and purple, the last light of day fading into darkness.

Determination beats in my chest. I'm Princess Anastasia Rostova, and I've never failed at anything I've truly wanted.

If Samuil Galkin won't come to me, I'll go to him.

4

SAMUIL

The meeting drags on longer than I'd like, but that's the nature of running an empire built on blood and discipline. Three of my captains sit across from me in my office, discussing shipment routes and territory disputes that need my immediate attention. I'm wearing dark jeans and a gray dress shirt that is starting to wrinkle from shuffling so much paperwork, maps, and doing menial tasks.

My office reflects everything I've built from nothing. Dark wood paneling lines the walls, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes I've actually read, not just for show. A massive mahogany desk dominates the room, and behind me, windows overlook the city's glittering skyline. Every light out there represents someone living their life, unaware of the empire I control from this room.