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"Then handle them from here." I move closer, letting my full height and presence emphasize the point. "Set up offices, make phone calls, send trusted people to check on things if necessary. But the core household stays exactly where it is until I say otherwise."

"The princess might prefer to return to her family home during this difficult time," another staff member suggests carefully. "Familiar surroundings could provide comfort."

"My wife stays here." My tone says don't argue with me. "Her father stays here. All of you stay here. That's not a request or a suggestion. It's an order, and anyone who has a problem with it can take it up with me personally."

The threat hangs in the air, unspoken but perfectly clear. The maid inclines her head in acknowledgment.

"As you wish, Pakhan Galkin. We will make the necessary arrangements to manage our duties from this location."

"Good." I turn my attention to my captain. "Make sure they have whatever they need. But no one leaves the grounds without my explicit permission."

He nods once, and I walk away before the conversation can continue. The truth I don't say out loud is that Ana needs her father present even if she won't admit it. She's grieving, she's angry, and she's locked herself away from everyone. But Ivan is the one person who might be able to reach her when she's ready to be reached.

And I sure as hell can't do it. Not when I'm the one who pulled the trigger. Literally and figuratively.

Sunday morning arrives with no change. Ana remains behind her locked door, and I remain in my study pretending to work while actually staring at reports I've already read five times.

Monday morning, everything shifts. I'm in the dining room finishing breakfast when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Light, measured, distinctly feminine. My entire body goes rigid, my coffee cup frozen halfway to my mouth.

Ana appears in the doorway, and the sight of her steals the breath from my lungs. She's dressed simply in dark pants and a soft sweater, her hair pulled back from her face. But it's her eyes that gut me. They're red-rimmed from crying, shadowed with exhaustion, and completely devoid of the warmth that had slowly been building between us over the past weeks.

"Good morning." Her voice is quiet, polite, and carefully measured. The voice of a stranger making small talk.

"Good morning." I set down my coffee carefully, watching her like she might disappear if I move too quickly. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." She moves to the sideboard where breakfast has been laid out, her movements precise and controlled. "The physician checked on me yesterday. The baby is fine. I'm recovering well."

The clinical way she delivers the information makes my chest tighten. This is not my wife speaking. This is Princess Anastasia Rostova, royal heir, performing the role of polite conversation with someone she barely knows.

"Ana." I stand, taking a step toward her.

"I'd prefer if you called me Anastasia." She doesn't look at me as she selects fruit and toast, her hands steady. "Or Princess Anastasia, if you prefer the formal address."

The words hit hard and low. "You're my wife."

"Yes." She finally turns to face me, and the emptiness in her eyes is worse than anger would have been. "I'm aware of that fact. It doesn't change my preference regarding how you address me."

"I'm not going to address my wife formally in our own home," I say, my jaw tight. She looks about ready to argue, but with a little shake of her head, she focuses on choosing her breakfast without another word.

"We need to talk," I say after a minute.

"About what?" She carries her plate to the table and sits, her posture perfect, her movements controlled.

"About what happened."

"There's nothing to discuss." She cuts a piece of melon with surgical precision. "You did what you had to do. I understand that."

"Understanding and accepting are two different things."

"Yes." She finally meets my eyes, and the pain I see there nearly breaks me. "They are."

I wait until she finishes eating, until the staff clears the dishes and leaves us alone in the dining room. Then I move to the chair beside her, close enough to see the faint shadows under her eyes and the tension in her jaw.

"Talk to me." I keep my voice low, gentle in a way that doesn't come naturally.

"What do you want me to say?" She looks at me with those devastated eyes. "That I understand why you killed him? I do. A Pakhan has no choice when someone commits that level of betrayal. The rules are absolute, and you followed them exactly as you were supposed to."

"But?"