“You and Calina will attend your first official Society event in two days,” he says. “She handled herself well at the gala. Impressive woman.”
I dislike the way he's taking interest in my fiancée. But I nod instead. “We will be there.”
The moment the meeting ends, I walk out feeling a rare surge of satisfaction.
Dmitri and Viktor are waiting for me outside by the car.
“How did it go?” Viktor asks.
I allow myself a small smile flashing my membership card. “We’re officially in.”
Dmitri’s eyes widen, then he cracks a grin. “Wow… so it really happened. After all these years of that bastard Adrian blocking you.”
Viktor nods. “Adrian looked pissed as hell when stepped out a moment ago. We should be careful. We have no idea what he’ll try next to push you out.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “We stay ready. If he comes for us, we’ll be waiting.”
As we get into the car, I turn to Dmitri. “Did the transfer go smoothly?”
“Yes,” Viktor answers for him. “The donation was anonymous, as always.”
I lean back in my seat, satisfied. That money will go where it’s needed, to the orphanages. The same ones I grew up in. The same ones that kept me alive when no one else gave a damn.
I keep that part of me hidden from almost everyone. Only Viktor and Dmitri know how personal those donations are.
The rest of the world sees the cold, ruthless Pakhan. They don’t need to know about the abandoned boy who still remembers what it felt like to have nothing.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Calina
I’ve been so worked up lately. The wedding planning, the uncertainty, the way my body keeps betraying me around Maxim. I need an outlet before I explode.
Cooking has always been my escape. Back home, I used to cook for the family.
Standing in a kitchen, chopping, stirring, creating something warm and nourishing, it grounded me. I miss them. I miss my family so much it aches.
I glance at the clock. The cook should start preparing dinner soon.
I head downstairs and find Mrs. Petrova in the large, modern kitchen, a middle-aged woman with warm brown eyes, softcurves, and her dark hair pulled into a neat bun. She has a kind, motherly face and a gentle smile.
“Good evening,” I say, offering her a small smile.
“Good evening, Miss,” she responds with a warm smile. “May I help you with anything?”
“I was thinking… maybe I could cook tonight?”
The woman looks at me like I’ve suggested setting the house on fire.
“Oh no, Miss Calina,” she says quickly, eyes wide. “The boss would never allow that. You’re not supposed to touch anything in the kitchen.”
I expected resistance, but I’m not backing down. “Please. I really want to. I used to cook all the time for my family. It helps me… to de-stress.”
Her eyes widen. “Perhaps I can make you some lavender tea?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Actually, I’ve been craving homemade pelmeni. The real Siberian kind, with the thin dough and juicy filling. Do you know how to make them?”
The cook’s expression softens a little. “Yes, I do. But Mr. Orlov?—”
