Page 29 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

Pavel waits in the entry hall, reviewing something on his phone with the same focused attention he applies to everything. He’s wearing a dark charcoal suit that fits him perfectly, emphasizing the broad shoulders and controlled power he carries so effortlessly. When he glances up and sees me descending the stairs, something flickers in his expression before the usual control reasserts itself.

“You look appropriate,” he says, which I suppose is the closest thing to a compliment I should expect.

“How reassuring.” I reach the bottom step. “Are you going to brief me on tonight’s performance, or am I expected to improvise?”

“Stay close, be polite, and remember that everything you say reflects on both of us.” He pockets his phone and moves toward the door. “Several of tonight’s guests havepolitical connections. Your father’s name will likely come up. Respond with appropriate warmth but no specifics about your relationship with him.”

“Admitting he sold me to criminals might damage the alliance?”

Pavel pauses at the door, glancing back with that assessing look I’ve come to recognize. “Honesty about your circumstances serves no strategic purpose and creates complications we don’t need.”

The drive takes twenty minutes, Pavel spending most of it on phone calls conducted in rapid Russian I can’t follow. I stare out the window, watching the city pass by while trying to prepare myself for whatever this evening requires.

The gathering is held at what Pavel describes as a “secondary property”—which apparently means another mansion, this one overlooking the river with grounds that rival his primary residence. Cars line the circular driveway, expensive models that speak to the wealth of the attendees.

“Remember,” Pavel says as we pull up to the entrance, “you’re here as my wife. That status provides protection, but it also makes you a target for anyone looking to gain leverage or information.”

“So smile politely while being paranoid about everyone’s motives. Got it.”

His hand settles on my lower back as we exit the car, the touch possessive and clearly intentional for anyone watching. “Stay within sight. If anyone makes you uncomfortable, find me immediately.”

The concern underneath the command surprises me, but I don’t have time to analyze it before we’re inside.

The gathering is smaller than I expected; maybe forty people spread throughout an elegantly appointed great room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water. Servers circulate with champagne and hors d’oeuvres, conversation flowing in multiple languages as clusters of well-dressed guests conduct business disguised as socializing.

I recognize the atmosphere immediately. This is the world I grew up in—power players networking behind pleasant facades, deals being negotiated over drinks, everyone performing their role in elaborate political theater.

Except here, the stakes involve criminal enterprises instead of legislative votes.

Pavel guides me through introductions with practiced efficiency. Names and faces blur together. Businessmen with vague titles, a city councilman who clearly knows exactly what organization he’s allied with, a woman who owns half the luxury real estate in the financial district.

They all treat Pavel with careful respect that borders on deference. And they study me with barely concealed curiosity, assessing what my presence means for the balance of power.

“Senator Souris’s daughter,” one older gentleman observes after Pavel introduces us. “Quite the alliance your families have formed.”

“Yes,” I reply with the polished smile I perfected years ago. “We’re very pleased with the arrangement.”

The lie tastes bitter, but the man nods approvingly before moving on to discuss shipping logistics with Pavel.

An hour passes in careful performance. I smile, make appropriate small talk, deflect questions about my father with practiced grace.

Pavel remains close, his hand occasionally settling on my waist or lower back. Small touches that broadcast ownership while also keeping me anchored to his side.

It should feel suffocating. Instead, it’s strangely grounding, a constant reminder that I’m not navigating this alone even if the protection comes from my captor.

I’m accepting champagne from a passing server when a man approaches—mid-forties, expensive suit, the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no.

“Mrs. Rudenko,” he greets with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Boris Volkov. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Something about his demeanor immediately sets me on edge, but I maintain my polite expression. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine.” His gaze travels over me with uncomfortable deliberation. “Pavel is a lucky man. I had no idea the senator’s daughter was so… captivating.”

I take a small step back, creating distance. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“Not kind. Honest.” He moves closer, eliminating the space I just created. “Tell me, how are you finding married life? The transition from political circles to… our world… must be quite jarring.”

“I’m adapting.” I glance around, looking for Pavel in the crowd. He’s across the room in conversation with Mikhail and two other men, his back partially to me.