He called it strategy—a younger wife to secure more offspring and tighten his grip on legacy.
I call it pure fucking gluttony—another way for him to take what he wants and leave the rest of us to choke on it.
I exhale slowly, pushing the anger back where it belongs. It’s been years, but the sight of both women in this house still feels like a battle I’ve already lost.
Tatiana, the blonde viper I’ve been forced to call my stepmother—which is technically inaccurate, since she’s more like a sanctioned mistress—perches on the armrest of a chair near the bed, her red silk blouse practically glowing in the dim light.
She doesn’t sit like Mother, poised and stoic.No, Tatiana drapes herself over the chair like it’s a throne, her manicured nails trailing along the wood in a rhythm that grates against the beeping monitor.
She looks like she’s waiting for her moment to strike, her eyes gleaming with the kind of ambition that makes people like her dangerous.
Her fingers pause mid-tap as her gaze flicks to me; for a moment, her eyes lock onto mine, the corner of her lips curling ever so slightly into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s the kind of smile that promises trouble, a warning wrapped in charm.
I hold her stare, refusing to look away, my jaw tightening as the air between us thickens. She tilts her head just enough to make it clear she’s about to pounce.
“Well, well,” she says. “The prodigal son finally graces us with his presence. Should we alert the press?”
“Only if they want to document you circling this place like a vulture,” I snap, locking eyes with her and holding the glare until she blinks.
Tatiana doesn’t dignify me with a response. Instead, she rises gracefully from the leather chair, smoothing her skirt with slow, deliberate movements. She walks toward the bed, her heels clicking against the polished floor, then stops just short of my father’s still form. Her hand hovers over the blanket, like she’s debating whether to straighten it or simply let the gesture hang in the air—pointless, performative.
“It’s called paying respects, Konstantin,” she murmurs, her voice syrupy but her eyes glinting as they flick back to me. “You might want to try it sometime.”
Before I can fire back, a throat clears from the corner.
Boris steps into the light, his wiry frame casting a long shadow across the room. He’s been my father’s lawyer for decades, a man who thrives on secrets and the leverage they bring. His suit, dark and impeccable, fits like a second skin, his tie knotted with the precision of someone who considers disarray a sin. He adjusts his glasses—not nervously, but methodically, like a ritual—before glancing between us with the faintest flicker of judgment.
“Gentlemen—and ladies,” he begins. “We have more pressing matters to discuss.”
I narrow my eyes. “ThePakhanisn’tdeadyet, Boris. Or did you come here to deliver some groundbreaking news I don’t already know?”
Boris doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he unsnaps his leather briefcase and pulls out a stack of documents, setting them down with deliberate care on the side table.
“Your father’s condition has necessitated certain… preparations,” he says finally, looking at me over the rim of his glasses.
“Preparations,” I echo. “Let me guess. Another brilliant scheme to ruin my life?”
“Not ruin,” Boris says calmly, clasping his hands in front of him. “Safeguard. Your father, in his infinite wisdom, left clear instructions regarding the succession of leadership should he become incapacitated.”
Tatiana’s lips curve into a smug smile. I don’t like it.
“Just get to the point,” I snap.
Boris adjusts his glasses again, a theatrical gesture I’m sure he practiced in a mirror. “The terms of succession require you, Konstantin, to marry and produce an heir within the year. Should you fail to meet these conditions, the title ofPakhanwill pass to Filipp.”
My brow furrows. For a moment, I think I’ve misheard him. “What the hell do you mean by ‘produce an heir’? I have three children. Or did you forget?”
Boris raises a hand, fingers slightly splayed as if to calm me, then clears his throat.
“Yes,” he says slowly, his gaze flicking to Mother, then Tatiana, before landing briefly on my father’s unmoving form. “But you are not married.”
The words hit like a hammer. My hand grips the back of the chair next to me, my knuckles whitening as disbelief courses through me.
“You’re not fucking kidding me,” I say, the weight of his statement sinking in. The chair creaks under the pressure of my grip, and for a moment, I think about hurling it through the window.
Tatiana, of course, takes this opportunity to twist the knife. “Ah, yes,” she says, her voice smooth, almost amused. “Your lovely wife. What’s her name again? Oh, right. Irina. The one who disappeared seven years ago, leaving you and your threeadorablechildren behind.” Her eyes glint as she adds, “You know your father’s rules, Konstantin. No wife, no complete family. No family…” She trails off, her meaning obvious.
The words claw at something raw inside me.
