Page 57 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

She walks past me and out of the room. I hear her footsteps on the stairs, then the slam of a door somewhere above.

Fuck. She's right. I am being a bastard. My only excuse is that I'm running on fumes and frustrated and angry that I don't have any significant leads to find Ivan. That's not her fault, but with everything else in such disorder, seeing my house, my refuge, like that just made me snap. I'll have to apologize to her later.

I spend the rest of the day coordinating search efforts, and Gregory reports back with financial records showing nothing suspicious about the missing bodyguard. The man's life appears completely normal, which makes his disappearance even more concerning.

By evening, I'm reviewing security footage from various properties when my phone rings. One of my captains, voice tight with urgency.

"We found something."

Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. My men have secured the area, their faces grim in the fading light.

Ivan's armored vehicle sits in the center of the empty space, the black SUV that should have taken him home from the wedding reception. The windows are intact, the doors closed, and there's no visible damage.

But across the driver's door, someone has painted a symbol in fresh red paint. The paint is still wet, dripping slowly down the metal surface. I move closer, my chest tightening as I recognize the design.

It's the same symbol Ivan drew in the margins of his journal.

29

ANA

I'm still furious hours after Samuil storms out of the sitting room. His words echo in my head as I pace through the empty space, surrounded by paint samples and fabric swatches scattered across the floor. You're not my equal. You're a princess who's never had to work for anything in her life.

The accusation stings. Not because it's entirely true, but because there's enough truth in it to make me uncomfortable. I've spent my entire life making autonomous decisions. As the last Bratva princess, I've never needed permission for anything. If I wanted something changed, I ordered it changed. If I wanted something purchased, it was purchased. My word was law within the Rostova household, second only to my father's.

But standing here in Samuil's estate, looking at the chaos I've created without a single thought to what he might want, a realization settles over me that I don't particularly like. I never once considered asking him.

Not about the paint colors or the furniture or the decorators. Not about any of it. I simply assumed that as his wife, I had the right to make these decisions. That my taste and preferences should automatically take precedence. The thought irritates me. Why should it matter what he wants? This is my home now too. I have every right to make it comfortable for myself.

Except he's right that I've been treating this place like it's mine alone. Like he's just some obstacle to work around rather than the man who has lived here for years. This is his home. How would I feel if he'd come to live at my estate and started changing things without at least discussing it with me? For all I know, I could have had a painting or other valuable removed that had a strong sentimental value to him.

He's right. I've been acting like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum, rearranging his entire home because I can, because I need to feel like I have control over something in my life right now. But more than that, I hate the real reason I'm throwing myself into these renovations with such desperate intensity. Because if I stop moving, if I stop planning and ordering and rearranging, I'll have to think about my father.

The thought makes my chest tighten with fear again. I can't afford to let fear run over me. Everything that can be done is being done. Everyone is looking for him. They will find him. I have to keep telling myself that. In the meantime, I need to be productive and useful. And that doesn't mean rearranging the house.

I walk through the estate with fresh eyes, forcing myself to look past the decorative changes and focus on what actually needs attention. The morning sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

By late afternoon, I've shifted my focus from purely decorative changes to actual structural problems that need addressing. The estate is beautiful, but there are issues that have been ignored for too long.

In the east wing, I notice water stains on the ceiling. When I question the staff, they admit the roof has been leaking for months. They've been placing buckets to catch the drips during rainstorms, working around the problem rather than fixing it. I order immediate repairs. Not just patching the leak, but a complete inspection of the entire roof system.

The kitchen is next. Some of the appliances look a bit outdated. They don't necessarily need to be replaced right now, but I'm putting them on my list to visit later. I spend the rest of the day with staff, tightening nuts and bolts here, replacing weather stripping, and just basic maintenance duties. Every time my mind starts to drift toward thoughts of my father, I force myself to focus on something else. Another room to inspect, problem to solve, or decision to make.

It's early evening when Samuil returns. I hear his footsteps in the main hall and brace myself for another argument. But when he appears in the doorway of the sitting room, he looks exhausted. Dark circles shadow his eyes and tension lines his jaw.

"We found Ivan's vehicle," he says without preamble.

My heart stops. The notebook slips from my fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud. "Where is he? Is he okay?"

"He wasn't in it." Samuil pulls something from his jacket pocket. A photograph. "But someone left a message."

He hands me the photo, and I study it carefully, my hands trembling slightly. It shows the black armored SUV that my father uses sitting in what looks like an abandoned warehouse. Across the driver's door, someone has painted a strange symbol in red paint.

The design is intricate. Circular, with geometric patterns radiating from the center. Sharp angles and curved lines that form something almost ritualistic in appearance. The paint looks fresh, still wet and dripping.

"Have you ever seen this before?" Samuil watches me closely, his dark eyes searching my face.

I start to shake my head. The symbol means nothing to me. I've never seen anything like it in my father's papers or the family records or anywhere else.