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Between the first and second courses, a woman named Irina casually mentions a judge she knows who's considering retirement. Another woman responds that her husband's firm would be interested in recommending a replacement. The conversation shifts seamlessly to discussing candidates, their qualifications, and their family connections. Within five minutes, they've essentially decided who will be appointed to a significant judicial position. No votes. No formal process. Just powerful women having lunch.

During the main course, the discussion turns to an upcoming mayoral race. Elena, whose husband controls several construction companies, mentions that one candidate has been very receptive to infrastructure proposals. Natasha, married to a media mogul, notes that her husband's newspapers have been covering that candidate favorably. Maria adds that her charity foundation recently received a generous donation from the same candidate's campaign fund.

The message is clear. They've chosen their candidate, and they're coordinating to ensure his victory.

I set down my fork and really look at these women. Not as social rivals or potential allies in some petty game of status. But as what they actually are. Power brokers. These women aren't decorative accessories to powerful men. They're wielding influence that shapes the city, maybe even the entire region. They control charity board appointments that determine which causes receive funding. They influence business contracts with casual comments over lunch. They decide political campaigns with coordinated support.

And they do it all while appearing to discuss nothing more important than flower arrangements and vacation plans.

"Anastasia, you've been quiet today." Irina turns her attention to me, and I realize the entire table has gone silent. "How are you adjusting to your engagement?"

The question seems innocent, but I catch the calculation in her eyes.

"It's been an adjustment," I say carefully. "Samuil is not what I expected."

"Few men are." Svetlana smiles, but there's steel beneath it. "The question is whether you're what he needs."

The words land like a challenge. Not whether I want him or whether he wants me. Whether I'm what he needs. Whether I can be useful to him.

"I'm still figuring that out," I admit.

Elena leans forward slightly. "Your mother would have known immediately. She had excellent instincts about these things."

The mention of my mother catches me off guard. "You knew her?"

"We all did." Maria's expression softens. "She was remarkable. Beautiful, yes, but also brilliant. She understood power in ways most people never do."

"She died when I was born." The words come out flat, emotionless. I've said them so many times, they've lost all meaning.

"We know." Irina's voice is gentle. "It was a great loss. Not just for your father, but for all of us. She would have been a formidable presence in this circle."

The conversation shifts after that, moving to safer topics, and the luncheon ends two hours later. I've spent years playing at power, using my beauty and status to command attention. But these women have shown me what real influence looks like. It's quiet. Strategic. Built over decades through careful relationships and calculated moves.

And I've been wasting my time on games that don't matter.

By the time I return to Samuil's estate, it's mid-afternoon. The house is quiet, most of the staff occupied with their duties. I wander through the halls, restless and unable to settle.

I stop pacing suddenly when I hear voices coming from the back of the property. I follow the sound to a large window overlooking the grounds. Below, I can see Gregory overseeing security staff training exercises. There are at least a dozen men running drills, practicing hand-to-hand combat, and working through tactical scenarios.

Gregory moves among them with easy authority, correcting stances, demonstrating techniques, offering praise when someone executes a move correctly. The men clearly respect him. They listen when he speaks, follow his instructions without question, and treat him like someone who's earned his position rather than someone who inherited it.

I watch for nearly an hour, fascinated by the dynamic. Gregory is younger than most of the men he's training, but his competence is undeniable. He moves like Samuil does, with that same controlled violence barely contained beneath the surface.

One of the men mentions the wedding while they're taking a water break. I can't hear the exact words, but I see Gregory's reaction. His entire body tenses. His jaw clenches. The easy smile he'd been wearing disappears completely. He says something short and sharp, and the men immediately change the subject.

It happens again twenty minutes later. Another casual mention of the engagement, and Gregory's mood darkens visibly. This time, he ends the training session early, dismissing the men with clipped instructions. I step back from the window before he can look up and see me watching.

Gregory has genuine concerns about this engagement. That much is obvious. But why? What does he know that I don't? What does he see that makes him react so strongly every time the wedding is mentioned?

The questions follow me back to my suite, where I try to distract myself with reading. But I can't focus. A knock on my door interrupts my thoughts.

"Come in," I call.

One of the household staff enters carrying a large package. "This just arrived for you, Princess Anastasia. From your father."

My heart skips. "Thank you."

The woman sets the package on the table near the window and leaves quietly. I stare at it for a long moment before approaching. The box is elegant, wrapped in cream paper with my family's crest embossed on the top.