Page 62

I don't want praise for this. I don't need anyone to know. These are the things you do when you have power and resources, the quiet acts that matter more than any grand gesture. I imagine my mother did the same. But for me, it's my way of giving without people thinking I'm doing it just for the gratitude.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of renovation decisions. New curtains for the guest wing. Repairs to the fountain in the courtyard. Replacement tiles for the damaged section of the entrance hall. I throw myself into every detail, grateful for the distraction.

By early afternoon, a car arrives to take me to the Aristocrat Wives' Circle luncheon. I consider canceling, but sitting alone in the estate waiting for news will drive me insane.

The luncheon is held at an elegant private club downtown, as are most of them. The dining room overlooks manicured gardens with a tall brick fence. Discreet blinds cover the windows, allowing us to see outside without suffering the glare of the sun.

Several of the ladies offer sympathies about my father's disappearance. Their concern seems genuine, though I haven't learned to read their expressions yet. They are very good at hiding their thoughts and feelings. I wish I were a little more like that. When I'm angry, I forget all about being a princess and whatever filter I may have disappears without a trace.

"We're all praying for Ivan's safe return," one of the older women says, squeezing my hand. "He's a good man."

"Thank you." I force a smile. "I appreciate your kindness."

We settle at the table, and servers bring the first course. The conversation flows around me, touching on charity events and upcoming social obligations. I participate when required, but my mind keeps drifting back to my father.

"Princess Anastasia," one of the women says, her tone carefully casual. "Have you and Samuil discussed the future of the Rostova bloodline?"

I set down my fork slowly. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Well, you're the last royal princess." She exchanges glances with the other women. "One of Russia's oldest royal families. The responsibility for continuing that legacy now rests with you."

Heat crawls up my neck. I know exactly where this conversation is heading.

"There's no greater honor," another woman adds, "than presenting your family with the next heir. Especially given your unique position."

I smile politely, saying what etiquette requires. "Of course. It's something we'll consider in time."

But inwardly, I recoil. They're talking about having children and my duty to produce an heir and fulfill my role as the last Rostova princess. I've never wanted children. When I believed Gregory was Samuil's son, that was one of the main reasons I wanted out of the engagement. I refused to become an instant mother to someone else's child. Learning that Gregory wasn't Samuil's biological son relieved that anxiety, as did Samuil telling me he doesn't want kids either.

The conversation continues around me, the women discussing pregnancies and births and the joys of motherhood. I nod in the right places, make appropriate comments, but inside I'm cringing. By the time the luncheon ends, I'm exhausted from maintaining the pleasant façade. I slip into the car and lean back against the leather seat, closing my eyes.

"Back to the estate, Mrs. Galkin?" the driver asks.

"Yes. Quickly, please."

The drive feels endless. When we finally pull through the gates, I'm out of the car before it fully stops. I need to know if there's been any news about my father. I find Samuil in his study with Gregory, both men bent over a map spread across the desk. They look up when I burst through the door.

"Any news?" I ask quickly, my gaze snapping between Samuil and Gregory.

Samuil straightens, his expression carefully controlled. "Gregory, give us a moment."

Gregory nods and moves toward the door, but not before I catch the look he exchanges with Samuil. I can't tell what they're silently communicating, but it's obvious it's something.

When we're alone, Samuil comes around the desk. "Every lead has ended in disappointment. But we're not stopping."

"It's been days." My voice cracks. "Each hour that passes means he's less likely to be found alive. You know that."

"I know." He steps closer, his presence solid and grounding. "But I also know your father is a survivor. If anyone can endure, it's Ivan Rostova."

A tear escapes before I can stop it. Samuil reaches up and gently brushes it away with his thumb. The tenderness in the gesture is surprising, but welcomed.

He pulls me into a deep, lingering kiss. His mouth is warm and demanding, and for precious moments I forget about my father's disappearance. I forget about the women at lunch and their expectations. I forget about everything except the feel of Samuil's hands on my waist, the taste of him, and how he makes me feel safe even when the world is falling apart.

When we finally part, I'm breathless.

"I'll send for you the moment there's any news," he says quietly. "I promise."

I nod, not trusting my voice. Then I reluctantly leave the study, pulling the door closed behind me. I stand there for a moment with my back against the door and my fingers hovering over my lips. That man can kiss! Just a little press of his lips against mine and all thoughts fly out the door.