Page 61 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

"Substantial money moved to an account we can't trace. Yet." Gregory leans forward. "The timing is too convenient to be a coincidence."

"Someone paid him." The pieces start falling into place. "Paid him to do what, exactly? Help with the kidnapping? Provide information? Steal from the estate?"

"Or keep his mouth shut about something he knew." Gregory's expression is grim. "Either way, he's connected to whatever happened to Ivan."

"Find that account. I don't care what it takes or who you have to lean on. I want to know who's paying people to keep secrets."

"Already on it."

After Gregory leaves, I return to the journal and read through every entry three more times, looking for patterns or hidden meanings. The more I study it, the more convinced I become that the missing pages held something critical.

The sky outside my window is starting to lighten when I finally close the journal. I should try to get a few hours of sleep before the day begins, but restlessness drives me to my feet. I move to the window and look down at the courtyard below. A light burns near the training area, which is unusual for this hour.

Benedikt stands alone in the center of the space, repeatedly throwing knives at a wooden target. Even from this distance, I can see the force behind each throw. The blades don't just stick into the wood. They split the timber.

He retrieves the knives and returns to his starting position, throws again. The same controlled violence, the same precision. The final knife strikes the exact center of the target, right where a man's heart would be.

I watch silently from my window as he stands there, staring at the target. His shoulders are tense, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. This isn't a man working through frustration or burning off excess energy. This is a man preparing for something. Or working through guilt about something already done.

I can't shake the feeling that Benedikt is carrying something far darker than simple worry about his missing employer.

31

ANA

Every time I close my eyes, fragments of the nightmare return. I jerk awake repeatedly, my heart pounding, sweat dampening my nightgown. By the time pale morning light filters through the curtains, I've given up trying to rest. My mind won't stop racing with terrible possibilities. What if my father is injured somewhere, waiting to be found? What if he's calling for help and no one can hear him? Realistically, I know that with every minute that passes, the likelihood of his being alive diminishes.

I throw back the covers and reach for Samuil, but his side of the bed is already cold. I must have dozed off at least a little not to have noticed him leaving. Restlessness drives me from the bedroom and through the hallways. The estate is already awake, staff moving quietly through their morning routines. They nod respectfully as I pass, but I barely register their presence.

In the sitting room, I find the housekeeper reviewing inventory lists. She looks up when I enter, surprise flickering across her weathered face.

"Mrs. Galkin. I didn't expect to see you this early."

"I couldn't sleep." I gesture to the papers spread across the table. "What are you working on?"

"Just household accounts, ma'am. Nothing that requires your attention."

But I need something to focus on, something to keep my mind occupied before it spirals into darker thoughts. "Show me."

She hesitates, then slides the ledger across the low table. I sit across from her and scan the columns of numbers, the careful notations of expenses and purchases. Everything is meticulously organized, exactly as I'd expect from someone who's managed this estate for years.

"One of the maids hasn't been in this week," the housekeeper mentions quietly. "Her husband was in an accident. He suffered serious injuries, and the doctors say he may never work again."

My attention sharpens. "Which maid?"

"The young woman who cleans the library. She's been with us since you arrived."

I remember her. Quiet, efficient, and always careful with the old books. "What happened to her husband?"

"He works construction and fell from the scaffolding." The housekeeper's expression is carefully neutral, but I hear the concern beneath her professional tone. "They have three children. Without his income…"

She doesn't need to finish the sentence. "Pay for his medical care," I say without hesitation. "All of it. And continue the family's wages from my personal accounts."

The housekeeper's eyes widen. "Ma'am, that's very generous, but⁠—"

"No one needs to know." I meet her gaze directly. "Especially not my husband. This stays between us. Understood?"

"Of course, Mrs. Galkin." She nods slowly, respect crossing her features. "I'll handle it discreetly."