Page 7 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

"No." I turn away from the window and walk back to my desk. "I'm not interested in playing games with you, Princess. Find someone else to entertain you."

"But you're the only one who interests me." Her voice drops lower, and my jaw tightens. "You're the only man who's ever looked at me and seen nothing special. Do you know how rare that is?"

"That's your problem, not mine."

"Maybe." She pauses again, and I can hear her breathing on the other end of the line. "But I think I got under your skin last night, even if you won't admit it."

She's too fucking smart for her own good. I can feel the irritation building in my chest, mixing with… what, respect? She's right. She did get under my skin, and I hate that she knows it.

"This conversation is over," I say, my voice hard. "Don't call this number again."

I hang up and set the phone down on my desk harder than necessary. The silence in the office is deafening. I stand there for a long moment, staring at the phone like it's a weapon that just went off in my hand.

Fuck.

I sit back down and pull a stack of paperwork toward me, determined to focus on something productive, but the words blur on the page, and I find myself replaying parts of the conversation.

I'm still staring at the same paragraph twenty minutes later when Gregory walks in. He's my mentee, the closest thing I have to family, and he knows me well enough to read my moods. He closes the door behind him and takes a seat across from my desk, his dark eyes studying me carefully.

"Everything alright, Samuil?" He leans back in the chair, relaxed but alert. "You look distracted."

"I'm fine." I set down the papers and lean back in my chair. "Just dealing with some bullshit."

"What kind of bullshit?"

"Nothing important." I change the subject quickly, unwilling to admit that a twenty-five-year-old princess disrupted my entire evening. "How did the meeting with the suppliers go?"

Gregory studies me for a moment, and I can see the questions in his eyes. But he's smart enough not to push. "It went well. They agreed to our terms and the shipment arrives Thursday."

"Good." I nod, forcing myself to focus on business. "Make sure security is tight. I don't want any surprises."

We talk for another fifteen minutes about logistics and schedules, and by the time Gregory leaves, I've almost convinced myself that the phone call with Anastasia meant nothing. Almost.

It's past midnight when there's a knock on my office door. I look up from the reports I've been reviewing, irritation flashing through me. I don't like being interrupted this late, but the knock is distinctive. One of my informants, a man who brings me intelligence I can't get anywhere else.

"Come in."

The door opens, and he steps inside. He's of average height and build, the kind of man who blends into crowds and disappears when he needs to. That's what makes him valuable. He crosses to my desk and sets down a folder without a word.

"What is it?" I ask, opening the folder.

"Ivan Rostova." His voice is quiet, professional. "He's been making inquiries lately. Quiet ones, but my sources picked them up."

I scan the first page, and my jaw tightens. Marriage alliances. He's looking into potential matches for the princess, reaching out to families across Moscow and America. It's not unusual. Bratva families arrange marriages all the time, consolidating power and forming alliances through blood ties.

But then I see the second page, and my jaw clenches so tightly, I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. There in bold ink is my name. He's fucking considering me as a future husband to Princess Anastasia!

5

ANA

The restaurant is exactly what I expected from a man like Samuil Galkin. Exclusive, elegant, and impossible to get into without connections. Dark wood paneling lines the walls, soft amber lighting casts shadows across white tablecloths, and the quiet murmur of conversation fills the space. It's Tuesday evening, and the place is packed with people who matter. Politicians, businessmen, and Bratva families alike are conducting quiet negotiations over expensive wine.

My black silk dress falls exactly half an inch below my knees and hugs every curve along the way. The neckline dips low enough to be interesting without being obvious. My hair falls in loose waves over my shoulders, and I've kept my makeup simple.

The hostess at the front recognizes me immediately. Her eyes widen slightly, and I can see the calculation happening behind her professional smile. She knows who I am and that I don't have a reservation. But she's also aware that turning away Ivan Rostova's daughter would be a mistake.

"Princess Rostova." She inclines her head respectfully. "Welcome. Are you meeting someone this evening?"