Page 50

"Ana." His voice is clipped, controlled. "We need to talk."

I set down the fabric samples and stand. "What's wrong?"

"Your father never made it home last night."

For a moment, I can't process what he's saying and I stare at him, blinking like an owl. "What do you mean, he never made it home? Where is he? What happened?"

"We don't know." Samuil crosses the room to me, his expression grim. "His convoy left the estate after the reception. They should have reached the Rostova property within an hour, tops. They never arrived. We've been trying to locate them all morning."

Fear claws at my chest, cold and sharp. "Have you checked the hospitals? Maybe there was an accident⁠—"

"We've checked everywhere. There's no sign of the convoy, no reports of accidents, nothing. It's like they vanished."

I'm already moving toward the door before I even understand that I'm moving. "We need to go look for him. Now."

Samuil catches my arm, stopping me. "Ana, wait."

"Wait?" I spin to face him, anger and terror flaring hot and bright. "My father is missing and you want me to wait?"

"I want you to think." His grip on my arm is firm but not painful. "Running off without a plan won't help anyone. We need to be smart about this."

"Then let's be smart. Let's go to his estate and search for clues. Let's talk to his men and find out what they know. Let's do something instead of standing here."

Samuil studies my face for a long moment, and I can see the internal debate playing out behind his eyes. Finally, he nods. "Fine. But you stay under heavy guard. Both Benedikt and I will be with you at all times. No arguments."

"No arguments," I agree immediately.

Within twenty minutes, we're in Samuil's armored SUV, speeding toward the Rostova estate. Benedikt sits in the front passenger seat, his posture rigid and alert. Two additional vehicles follow behind us filled with Samuil's most trusted men.

The drive feels endless. I stare out the window, my mind racing through possibilities. My father has enemies, of course. Every powerful man does. But he's also careful, strategic, always three steps ahead of potential threats. For someone to take him, they'd need to be exceptionally skilled or have inside information.

Was it the same person who tried to shoot him? Fear sparks along my nerves. If it is, is he even still alive? I mentally shake my head. I can't let my thoughts drift into such dangerous territory. If I think like that, then I'll be no good to him.

He's alive. He has to be.

When we finally pull through the gates of the Rostova estate, everything looks normal. The grounds are immaculate and the security guards are at their posts. Has anyone told them yet that their prince is missing? The way everything looks so normal is almost worse than finding signs of struggle. At least that would give us something to work with.

We enter through the main doors, and I immediately start calling for the household staff. They appear quickly, their faces drawn with worry.

"Has anyone heard from my father?" I demand. "Any phone calls, messages, anything?"

They shake their heads. The head of security steps forward, a man I've known since childhood. "Nothing, Princess. We've been trying to reach him since last night. All his phones go straight to voicemail."

Samuil takes charge, directing his men to search the property room by room. I follow, my heart pounding as we move through familiar spaces. My father's study looks exactly as it always does, papers neatly organized on his desk, his favorite chair positioned by the window. The sitting room where we used to have lunch is pristine and untouched.

No signs of struggle. No ransom demands. No clues about where he went or what happened to him.

We search for over an hour, combing through every room and questioning every staff member. The longer we search, the more my anxiety transforms into terror.

I'm standing in the main hallway, trying to think of anywhere we might have missed, when Gregory appears at the top of the stairs. His expression is carefully neutral, but I catch the tension in his shoulders.

"Pakhan," he says quietly. "You need to see something."

Samuil and I follow him to my father's private library, a room I've been in countless times. Gregory leads us to the massive desk that dominates the space, then kneels beside it.

"I was checking for hidden compartments," he explains, running his fingers along the underside of the desk. "And I found this."

He presses something, and a section of the desk's base clicks open, revealing a hidden compartment. What the hell? I never knew about that. But the compartment isn't untouched. The wood around the edges is scratched and splintered, clear evidence that someone has tried to pry it open.