Page 14 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

“Things have progressed,” I begin. “We are at a crossroads here, Darya. This alliance is the only variable that has changed after years of loyalty. As a result, there are two options in front of us—we strengthen the alliance or break it. I have no desire to clean up the bloodshed that would almost certainly ensue as a result of Option Two.” I hold up a hand to silence her when her mouth opens. I can tell by the way she clutches at her glass that she’s entertaining the thought of tossing her drink in my face. “Viktor isn’t an heir, but both Yuri's daughters wearing the Zakharov name will still count for something. It will put more at stake for both parties, making them even more entwined. Whoever is behind this is counting on this alliance being fragile. They’re getting bolder with their attacks. I have to believe that’s because they honestly believe one good push will splinter it. The strongest argument against that is making it unbreakable. Rein in your emotions, and please consider this logically. I know you are capable of that.”

All of them are. I’ve gotten to know the Yuris better over the past few months. I have seen firsthand the kind of loyalty and zeal they can inspire. This alliance may just cost them that. Darya will have to see that.

Even if she doesn’t, I have another million ways to justify this ask. It’s a matter of no consequence if none of them is the whole truth. I’m already used to carrying that for myself, like a fucking boulder where my heart once lived.

Chapter 5 - Darya

The only explanation is that, surely, I must’ve inhaled some toxic fumes. That can happen. I just have to wait. Any minute now, there will be an ebb in whatever hallucination is at play here. There has to be.

Is that too dramatic?

Maybe I simply fell asleep at the atelier. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Yes.

Yeah, this could absolutely be nothing more than an extremely bizarre dream.

Nightmare, I correct myself.

To myself, I can admit that it wouldn’t be an unfounded occurrence. I’ve dreamt about Anton Zakharov before. A slip that came to pass a long, long time ago—but, still, I’m well aware of how capable I am of mentally reproducing his likeness. All my professional attention to detail often extends to my dream worlds, too. That’s all there is to it.

Any second now, I’ll snap awake and laugh this off.

“—Darya.”

How far away one version of reality can wander from another. It’s eerie. It seems ludicrous that it had been only months ago that I’d stood beside this very man in a ballroom, a thirty-minute drive from this room—an honored guest in one location turned an unwelcome invader in this one—wanting him to dispense with formalities and call me by my name.

This man, who looked down his nose at me, who thought himself unduly superior, and left my pride rankled in the aftermath of my own courtesy, is the same one who stands in front of me now, making a fucked-up proposition that his tone suggests I’d be an idiot not to go along with...

Surely, this isn’t reality.

An eerie calm washes over me. “And why on God’s green earth would I do that?”

He stares at me like I’m slow. “I believe I just answered that question at length, Darya.”

I set my wine glass down so hard on an end table that it is a true miracle it does not shatter. Probably a good thing, considering the glass itself is a vintage crystal. It’s nothing to waste on this infernal bastard.

“You aren’t serious.” My tone warns him that my words aren’t a suggestion. He doesn’t look daunted. He should.

The way Anton smiles at me—the first time he’s ever smiled right at me, and I am loath to admit that I notice this—makes my stomach bottom out. “Darya. I don’t know about you, but I don’t know anyone, least of all myself, who would ask a woman to marry him as a joke.”

Never have I ever expelled such a graceless sound as the shriek of hysterical laughter that punches through me now. “Ask?” I demand. “I didn’t hear you fucking ask me anything.”

It’s a pity that I’ve drained the glass of wine. The fact that he rolls his eyes at me deserves a glass full in his stupid face. Pointedly, Anton says, “Okay. I apologize. Will you marry me, Darya?”

I blink. “Am I supposed to be honored that you employed my name this time? Instead of, you know, Yuri Daughter Number Two? Why ask me at all? Why not just ask the Yuri sons?”

It’s a minor miracle that my voice holds steady. My hands shake with unraveling fury. It’s safe to say that I don’t have it in me tonight to give the man any bonus points for Anton for how openly he admits, “I felt your pride would respond better to my asking you instead of your brothers. Either way, make no mistake, this marriage will happen. It is a smart move. I will ensure that it is clear to see.”

I’ll have to settle, I suppose, for just hating his guts.

I am a woman. I am the eldest daughter, yet the second youngest child in a long line of children. I’m a business owner, a professional, the leader of a team, and a savant in my niche. It’s safe to say that I am no stranger to disgust. Yet, I know, for certain, that I’ve never experienced it at so profound a level. It’s a brand of disgust that transmogrifies into horror in record time. It doesn’t escape me, either, that last night someone burned down warehouses on both sides of this alliance. I’d heard it from Nadya this morning, through a quick text. This alliance is more important than ever.

But how am I meant to process the fact that a person can treat another person like a pawn, and look completely at ease about admitting as much to their face?

My agency is a bonus I’m being offered, as if it is his to bestow on me. As is often the routine, yet like no time before, he propels me to question: Who the hell does this man think he is?

Good God in Heaven.