Page 29 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

I open it carefully, peeling back layers of tissue paper to reveal the contents.

I unwrap family heirlooms and jewelry that've been passed down through generations of Rostova women. A diamond necklace that belonged to my grandmother. Emerald earrings that date back two centuries. A delicate tiara that's been worn at every Rostova wedding for the past hundred years.

There are documents too. Marriage certificates from previous generations. Photographs of ancestors on their wedding day, and a leather-bound book containing family traditions and customs. Everything a bride would need to honor her family's history.

I lift each piece carefully, examining the craftsmanship, the weight of history in my hands. These aren't just beautiful objects. They're symbols of continuity. Of bloodlines that stretch back centuries and of the responsibility that comes with being the last Rostova heir.

And then, hidden beneath the jewelry and documents, there's a sealed envelope, slightly yellowed with age. And written across the front in elegant script is my name.

I recognize the handwriting immediately, even though I've only seen it in old letters and documents preserved in the family archives.

My mother's handwriting.

16

SAMUIL

Ireturn to the estate Wednesday evening, expecting another quiet night spent avoiding Ana and the complications she represents. Instead, I find her in one of the smaller sitting rooms on the second floor, surrounded by opened boxes and tissue paper scattered across the Persian rug.

And she's fucking crying.

Not the dramatic tears I'd expect from a spoiled princess throwing a tantrum. These are quiet, broken sobs that shake her shoulders as she sits curled in the leather armchair with something clutched against her chest. Her hair has fallen loose from whatever style she'd worn it in earlier, cascading over her shoulders in waves. She's still wearing the cream dress from this morning, but her feet are bare, her shoes abandoned near the doorway.

I should leave, turn around and walk away before she notices me standing here like some kind of voyeur. But something keeps me rooted in place. Maybe it's the absolute vulnerability I see in her body language, folded into herself as if trying to protect herself from hurt or danger. Women's tears don't usually bother me because they're usually fake, a demonstration just to try and get what they want. But Ana doesn't look like she's faking. Hell, she doesn't even know I'm here, so who would she be performing to?

I take a step further into the room and call out her name in a gentle tone. "Ana." It's the first time I've said her name without her title in front of it, and it irritates me that I like the sound of it.

She looks up sharply, her green eyes red and swollen. For a moment, she just stares at me like she can't quite process my presence. Then she wipes at her face with the back of her hand, trying to compose herself and failing completely.

"I didn't hear you come in." Her voice is thick with tears, nothing like the confident tone she usually wields like a weapon.

I step further into the room and close the door behind me out of instinct. Whatever this is, it doesn't need an audience from my staff. "What happened?"

She looks down at the envelope in her hands, yellowed with age and covered in elegant script. "My father sent family heirlooms for the wedding." She gestures vaguely at the boxes surrounding her. "And this."

"What is it?"

"A letter." She runs her fingers over the handwriting on the front. "From my mother. Written before I was born."

I know the story, of course. Everyone in our world knows that Ekaterina Rostova died delivering her only child twenty-five years ago. That Ivan never remarried, never even looked at another woman, leaving the princess without a mother figure growing up.

"You've never read it before?" I move closer, drawn by her sadness and vulnerability.

"I didn't know it existed." She looks up at me, and the raw pain in her expression makes my chest tighten. "My father kept it all these years. Waiting for the right moment, I suppose. I guess my wedding seemed appropriate to him."

I lower myself into the chair across from her, maintaining distance so she doesn't feel crowded or pressured. "What does it say?"

Ana's hands tremble as she unfolds the letter, the paper crackling softly. "She knew she might not survive the delivery. The doctors had warned her there were complications." Her voice breaks on the last word. "She wrote this in case she didn't make it."

The silence stretches between us as she reads silently, tears streaming down her face. I watch her, this woman who's been nothing but trouble since she walked into my life, and see something I didn't expect. Loneliness. I guess it's true what they say. You can be surrounded by wealth and people but still feel like the loneliest person on the planet.

"She said she hopes I get her eyes." Ana's laugh is bitter and broken. She looks up and points at them. "She got her wish. Everyone who knew my mother always tell me I have her eyes. She hoped I'd be strong like my father but gentle like her, and that I'd find… " She pauses to give me a wry look. "Find a husband who saw past the title and the expectations to the person underneath."

I don't wince, but for some reason, the woman's dying wish for her daughter strikes me in the gut. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, watching her carefully. "What else?"

"She talks about the weight of being a Rostova. How she felt crushed by it sometimes, by all the history and responsibility and tradition. How she learned to wear it like armor instead of letting it destroy her." Ana looks at me then, really looks at me, and I see understanding dawn in her eyes. "She was lonely too. Even surrounded by people who loved her, she felt alone."

The vulnerability in her voice is stark. This isn't the spoiled princess who invaded my restaurant or the determined woman who showed up at my estate uninvited. This is someone real, someone hurting who's spent her entire life trying to live up to a ghost she never had the chance to know.