Page 32 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

I force my focus back to the reports with deliberate discipline. This is a problem that requires the same solution as any other inefficiency—identify the source, eliminate the distraction, restore proper function.

Except the source is my wife, living in my house, occupying spaces I can’t simply restrict without valid justification.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I structured this entire arrangement to maintain control, yet somehow Serena’s presence is eroding the very focus that control requires.

By Thursday evening, I’ve had enough of my own divided attention. There’s a political fundraiser next week that requires both our attendance—another opportunity to reinforcethe alliance with her father while demonstrating unified presentation to contacts who matter. Serena needs to be briefed on the guest list, the key players, and appropriate talking points.

The conversation should take fifteen minutes, maximum.

I finish the evening’s remaining work around eleven, assuming Serena will already be asleep. The briefing can wait until morning, but walking past her door on the way to my room, I notice light still showing underneath.

She’s awake. The conversation will be more efficient now than trying to coordinate schedules tomorrow.

I don’t knock.

The connecting door between our rooms remains unlocked—my rule, not hers—and I push it open while already formulating how to structure the briefing most efficiently.

“Serena, we need to discuss next week’s—”

The words die as I register what I’m actually seeing.

She’s standing near the wardrobe, frozen mid-motion with her dress half removed. The black fabric hangs around her waist, leaving her upper body exposed except for the delicate lace bra that does very little to conceal the full curves of her breasts. Her hair falls across one bare shoulder, and in the lamplight her skin looks impossibly soft, warm honey tones that make my hands ache with the sudden urge to touch.

My gaze travels without permission—down the elegant line of her spine, the gentle curve of her waist where it flares into generous hips still partially covered by the dress. She’s not the slim, angular build that fashion magazines celebrate. She’s all soft curves and feminine fullness, the kind of body that would yield under a man’s hands, that would feel substantial and real rather than fragile.

The kind of body I want to explore with far more than just my eyes.

For several suspended seconds, neither of us moves.

I should leave. Every rational instinct screams that staying here, looking at her like this, crosses boundaries that exist for very specific reasons.

I can’t seem to make myself turn away.

Serena’s face flushes deep red, the color spreading down her neck and across her chest. Her hands move instinctively to cover herself, then freeze as if she’s uncertain whether that would draw more attention or less.

“Get out!” The command finally breaks the silence, sharp with embarrassment and fury.

The words jar me back to movement. I step backward immediately, pulling the door closed with controlled precision despite the adrenaline suddenly flooding my system.

The hallway feels too warm as I stand there, my hand still on the doorknob, pulse racing in a way that has nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with wanting.

The logical explanations line up neatly, but they don’t erase the image now burned into my memory—Serena half undressed, curves on full display, skin flushed and eyes wide with startled awareness.

I force myself to walk toward my own room with measured steps that belie the tension coiling through my entire body.

This is precisely why physical distance and professional boundaries matter. Why attraction can’t be allowed to develop into something more dangerous. Why I built rules and structure specifically to prevent this kind of complication.

Except the rules didn’t account for the reality of living in close proximity to a woman who’s becoming increasingly difficult to view as just strategic leverage.

I close the bedroom door and move directly to the bar, pouring vodka with hands that are almost steady.

The image refuses to fade. Her shoulder, bare and curved. The dip of her waist. The fullness of her hips. The way the lamplight caught on her skin, highlighting softness I have no business imagining under my palms.

I drain the vodka and pour another.

Serena isn’t meant to be temptation. She’s meant to be a political asset, carefully managed and strategically deployed. The marriage exists to serve organizational purposes, not to satisfy personal desire that complicates everything it touches.

Knowing that doesn’t stop my body from responding to what I saw. Doesn’t erase the visceral want that hit when I registered all those curves barely concealed by delicate lace.