Page 58 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

I don’t want to leave.

The realization hits with uncomfortable force. Despite the forced beginning, despite the power imbalance and controlissues we’re still navigating, despite every logical reason to want escape—I don’t actually want to leave Pavel.

I love him. Complicated and messy and probably inadvisable, but real.

Yet the small voice in the back of my mind whispers that love born from captivity isn’t really choice. That the attachment I feel might be Stockholm syndrome dressed up as genuine emotion. That I won’t know what I truly want until I’m free to make that decision without Pavel’s overwhelming presence influencing every thought.

I stand and move to the window, looking out at the mansion grounds. Guards patrol the perimeter with practiced precision. Security cameras monitor every entrance. The walls that surround the property are beautiful but absolute—designed to keep threats out and assets in.

I’m one of those assets. Valuable. Protected. Controlled.

The financial records my father mentioned—I know which folder he means. I’ve seen it in Pavel’s office, noticed it while we’ve worked in the same space. Red leather, distinctive among the black and gray that dominates his organizational system.

Getting to it would be simple. Pavel trusts me in his office now. Leaves documents accessible because he’s started including me in discussions about territory negotiations and political alliances. The trust he’s building toward actual partnership means access I didn’t have weeks ago.

Access I could exploit.

The thought makes my stomach turn. Using his trust against him, betraying the vulnerability he’s shown by including me more fully in his world—it feels wrong in ways that have nothing to do with strategic calculation.

Maybe that’s exactly why I should do it. If guilt this sharp means I’m still capable of seeing our relationship clearly, of recognizing the power imbalance underneath the growing affection.

I return to the desk and study the message again, looking for anything I might have missed. The handwriting in the code is definitely my father’s. I recognize the particular way he forms certain letters, quirks that would be difficult to fake.

That doesn’t mean the message itself is trustworthy.

Friday at 2:00 p.m. That’s three days from now. That gives me enough time to plan carefully, to watch guard rotations, to figure out the safest way to copy those records and slip out undetected.

Enough time to change my mind a dozen times.

I should tell Pavel. Should bring him this message and let him handle it—investigate whether it’s genuine or a trap, make the strategic decision about how to respond.

If I tell him, the choice is gone. He’ll lock down security, restrict my movements, possibly cut off contact with my father entirely. All reasonable responses from his perspective, but all of them removing my agency in the decision.

And if this is my only chance at freedom, I’ll have lost it by defaulting to his protection instead of making my own choice.

***

The internal argument circles endlessly while I get ready for dinner, while I sit across from Pavel and make appropriate conversation, while I smile and pretend everything is normal despite the envelope burning in my mind like a brand.

Pavel notices something is off—I can see it in the way he watches me, the slight furrow between his brows that appears when he’s analyzing a situation.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he observes over dessert.

“Just tired.” The lie comes easily. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“We can skip the transparency discussion if you’d prefer to rest.” His tone is careful, giving me an out. “It can wait until you’re feeling better.”

The kindness makes guilt twist sharper. Here he is, making genuine effort to include me more fully, to address the concerns I raised about partnership and trust.

I’m sitting here planning to betray that trust by stealing from his office.

“No, we should talk tonight.” I force myself to meet his gaze. “I want to figure this out with you.”

Something softens in his expression. “Alright. After dinner, then.”

We retreat to his study—our study, increasingly, as I’ve claimed space there alongside his work. He settles behind the desk while I curl up in the armchair, and we begin the careful negotiation of boundaries.

What information do I need access to? What creates unnecessary risk? Where’s the line between transparency and operational security?