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"Ana." My father's voice is gentle but firm, his hands still gripping my shoulders. "Listen to me. Benedikt did poison Samuil's meal. But you switched your plates at dinner because the rich food made you nauseous. You ate what was meant for Samuil. You were the one who was poisoned."

The words don't make sense at first. I stare at my father, trying to process what he's saying through the fog of grief and shock. I switched the plates. I ate Samuil's dinner because mine smelled too rich, too heavy. The poison was meant for him, not me. Benedikt tried to kill my husband, and I nearly died instead.

"Benedikt tried to assassinate a Pakhan," my father continues quietly, his eyes searching my face. "There's only one punishment for that kind of betrayal. You know this, Ana."

I do know. I've grown up in this world, surrounded by violence and brutal justice. I understand the rules, the codes that govern our lives. Betrayal means death. It's always meant death. There are no exceptions, no mercy, no second chances. A man who tries to kill a Pakhan signs his own death warrant.

But understanding intellectually and accepting emotionally are two different things. Benedikt taught me to ride a bicycle when I was six years old, running alongside me with his hand on the seat until I found my balance, laughing when I finally pedaled on my own. He snuck me treats from the kitchen when I was supposed to be on a diet before important events, slipping me chocolate and pastries with a conspiratorial wink. He wiped away my tears when I scraped my knee learning to roller skate, when boys broke my heart at school dances, when my mother's absence felt too heavy to bear on her birthday.

He was always there, protective and loyal and constant. A steady presence in my life when so much else felt uncertain. How am I supposed to erase a lifetime of love and devotion because of one terrible choice? How am I supposed to reconcile the man who taught me to dance with the man who tried to murder my husband?

"I need to be alone," I whisper, pulling away from my father's grip. "Please. I just need to be alone right now."

I don't wait for permission. I turn and walk away, my steps mechanical and numb. I find my way back to the bedroom I occupied before the wedding. I can't stand the thought of going to the room I share with Samuil right now. The door closes behind me with a soft click, and I turn the lock with trembling fingers.

The room is exactly as I left it, except that my belongings have been moved to our shared room. It feels like a lifetime ago that I slept here, before everything changed. Before my husband killed my best friend.

I sink onto the bed and let the tears come. They're hot and endless, soaking into the silk pillowcase as I curl onto my side. Memories flood through me, each one a fresh wound that cuts deeper than the last.

Benedikt lifting me onto his shoulders so I could see over the crowd at a parade, his hands steady and strong as he held my ankles. How he stood guard outside my door when I had nightmares as a child, his presence making me feel safe enough to fall back asleep. How he taught me to dance before my first formal event, patient and kind as I stepped on his toes again and again, never once complaining or making me feel foolish.

He loved me. I know he did. Not in a romantic way, but with the fierce devotion of someone who had dedicated his life to protecting mine. And somewhere along the way, that love twisted into a dangerous obsession. Something that made him believe killing my husband was an act of protection rather than betrayal.

I understand why Samuil did what he did. I understand the rules, the necessity of swift and brutal justice. A Pakhan who shows mercy to traitors doesn't remain Pakhan for long. But understanding doesn't make the pain any less real. It doesn't erase the little girl inside me who just lost someone she loved. It doesn't stop the tears or quiet the ache in my chest.

Hours pass. The tears eventually slow, leaving me hollow and exhausted. The room grows darker as night deepens outside the windows. I lie there in the shadows, too drained to move, and too numb to think. My body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, pressed into the mattress by the weight of grief and shock.

Finally, I force myself to sit up. I can't hide in here forever. I need water, maybe food, though the thought of eating makes my stomach turn. I need to face whatever comes next, even if I don't feel ready. Even if I never feel ready.

I unlock the door and pull it open. Two armed guards stand in the hallway, positioned on either side of the doorway like sentries. They turn to look at me, their expressions carefully neutral.

"I need to go downstairs," I say quietly, my voice hoarse from crying.

One of them shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Princess Anastasia. The Pakhan says you're not to leave this room without an escort."

46

SAMUIL

Two days. Two fucking days since I executed Benedikt, and Ana has locked herself in that bedroom like it's a fortress. I've stood outside her door more times than I can count, my hand raised to knock, my entire body demanding that I force my way inside and make her listen to reason.

But I don't. Because forcing entry would push her away further than she's already gone, and I can't risk that. Not when I'm terrified I've already lost her completely.

The estate feels wrong without her presence. The hallways are too quiet, the meals too formal, the entire atmosphere strained and uncomfortable. Ivan moves through the rooms like a ghost, his health recovery complete but his eyes constantly drifting toward the staircase as though willing his daughter to appear.

Saturday morning finds me in the main sitting room, reviewing security reports that tell me absolutely nothing useful about who orchestrated Ivan's kidnapping. The financial trails have gone cold. The captured men are dead. Every lead has turned into a brick wall.

Voices rise from the hallway outside, pulling my attention from the useless paperwork. I recognize the head of Ivan's household staff, a woman who has served the Rostova family for three decades. Her tone is respectful but insistent.

"With all due respect, the Pakhan is recovering well. Our presence here is no longer necessary. We should return to the Rostova estate and resume our normal duties."

"Pakhan Galkin has ordered everyone to remain," one of my captains responds, his voice flat and unyielding.

I set down the reports and stand, my patience exhausted. I open the door and step into the hallway where Rostova staff members face off against my captain.

"No one leaves." My voice cuts through the discussion like a blade. "Not until we find every person involved in the kidnapping conspiracy. Is that clear?"

The maid turns to face me, her expression carefully neutral. "Pakhan Galkin, we understand the security concerns, but the Rostova estate requires management. There are staff who depend on us, properties that need oversight."