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"With respect, Princess, our orders come from Pakhan Galkin." His tone is polite but firm. "We report to him."

They disappear into the study, and the door closes behind them with a quiet click that feels like a slap in the face.

I'm the last Rostova heir. My father is missing, possibly in danger, and I'm being treated like I'm irrelevant. Like my bloodline and my title mean nothing in this house.

By the time the captains leave, I've retreated to the sitting room with a book I'm not actually reading. My mind keeps circling back to the same thought. I have no control here. No authority. No voice that anyone listens to.

I'm just the Pakhan’s wife. The princess who married into power but brought none of her own. The thought makes my chest tight even as panic threatens to overwhelm me. Where is my father? Is he still alive? I can't help but start to think the worst, especially since no one will update me. Is it bad news and that's why no one wants to share anything with me?

I jump up from the couch and start pacing. I can't just sit around here doing nothing! So I do the only thing I know how to do. I take control of what I can.

The housekeeper looks startled when I summon her to the sitting room. "Princess Anastasia? Is something wrong?"

"The household schedule needs to be reorganized." I set down my book and stand, channeling every bit of authority I've ever possessed. "The morning routines are inefficient. I want breakfast served at seven sharp, not seven thirty. The staff should complete their cleaning rotations by noon, not mid-afternoon."

She blinks. "But Pakhan Galkin prefers⁠—"

"I'm mistress of this house now." My voice is sharper than I intend. "The schedule will change starting tomorrow."

"Of course, Princess." She inclines her head, but I catch the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

I don't stop there. The floral arrangements in the main hall are wrong. Too formal and stiff. I order them removed and replaced with something softer and more elegant. The servants exchange glances but obey.

The furniture in the sitting room is too heavy and masculine. I send two men into the city to find lighter pieces, something that reflects my taste instead of Samuil's stark aesthetic. By mid-afternoon, I've reorganized the entire ground floor.

The housekeeper looks exhausted when I summon her again. "The linens in the guest suites need to be replaced. I want Egyptian cotton, high thread count. And the curtains in the dining room are too dark. Find something in cream or ivory."

"Princess, that will take several days to arrange⁠—"

"Then you should start immediately."

She nods and retreats, and I catch the look she exchanges with one of the maids. They think I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. But at least I'm doing something. At least I have control over this small corner of my life, even if everything else is spinning out of reach.

I keep myself busy for the rest of the afternoon, issuing orders and making changes and refusing to think about my father. Refusing to imagine where he might be or what might be happening to him. If I stop moving, if I let myself think too hard, the fear will consume me. So I don't stop.

By the time Samuil finally returns, the sun has set and I've rearranged half the estate. I hear his footsteps in the main hall and I'm there before he can disappear into his study.

"Where have you been?" My voice is nearly breathless, the worry I've been trying to keep at bay all day escaping with that one question.

He looks tired. His suit jacket is gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and there are shadows under his eyes that weren't there this morning.

"Searching." His voice is rough.

"And?" I cross my arms over my chest. "Did you find anything?"

"No."

All the air seems to leave me at once and my shoulders slump with the weight of his one word. "Nothing? You've been gone all day and you found nothing?"

"We're doing everything we can, Ana." He moves past me toward the study, but I follow.

"That's not good enough." My voice rises despite my best efforts to stay calm. "He's been missing for over twenty-four hours. Someone has to know something."

"If they do, they're not talking." Samuil pours himself a drink, his movements deliberate and controlled. "We've questioned everyone who had contact with Ivan in the past week. We've reviewed security footage, tracked his movements, interviewed his staff. There's nothing."

"Then you're not looking hard enough."

He turns to face me, and there's something dangerous in his eyes. "Don't."