Page 71 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

I open the door to find one of the household staff, a middle-aged woman whose name I still haven't learned. She leads me downstairs to a sitting room I haven't been in before, where a seamstress has set up a portable mirror and a dress form.

The seamstress is older, maybe sixty, with sharp eyes and quick hands. She speaks in rapid-fire English mixed with Russian, gesturing for me to stand on a small platform while she pins and tucks the white fabric draped over my body.

"You are so lucky," she says for what must be the tenth time. "To marry the Pakhan. Such a powerful man. Such a handsome man."

I force a smile and say nothing.

"Almost every single woman in the city would give their right arm to be in your shoes," she continues, her pins flashing as she works. "And a few who aren't single, too, if you know what I mean."

I don't agree, but I keep my mouth shut. What would be the point? She wouldn't understand. No one would understand unless they were living it.

The fitting takes over an hour. By the time she's done, my feet hurt from standing and my jaw aches from clenching it so hard. The seamstress packs up her supplies, still chattering about how fortunate I am, and finally leaves.

I barely have time to change back into my jeans and sweater before another knock sounds at the door.

The wedding planner.

She's younger than the seamstress, maybe forty, with perfectly styled blonde hair and a tablet clutched in her manicured hands. She sets up in the same sitting room, spreading fabric samples and color swatches across the coffee table like she's preparing for battle.

"Now," she says briskly, "let's discuss the ceremony. I'm thinking traditional Russian Orthodox, very formal and elegant. Gold and white color scheme, of course. Roses, lots of roses. And for the reception⁠—"

"Wait," I interrupt. "I don't want something that formal."

She blinks at me like I've spoken a foreign language. "But you're marrying the Pakhan. It has to be formal. It has to be grand."

"Why?"

"Because that's what's expected. This is a statement, Miss Walker. A declaration of power and unity. The entire organization will be watching."

I'd never been one to plan my wedding as a child. While other girls dreamed about white dresses and flower arrangements, I was more interested in sketching fashion designs and playing soccer with my brothers. I'd never imagined a big, formal wedding like the one this planner is describing. It sounds suffocating.

"I want something smaller," I say firmly. "More intimate. Less… showy."

"That's not possible."

"Why not?"

"Because the Pakhan’s wedding is a public event. There will be hundreds of guests. Important people. You can't just⁠—"

"I can, and I will." My voice rises. "If I'm being forced to marry him, the least he can do is let me have the wedding I want."

The planner's eyes widen. "Forced? Miss Walker, I don't think⁠—"

I wince. I shouldn't have said that. I wave my hand with a quick dismissive move. "Forced to marry him in a ceremony," I say, trying to improvise. "Can you tone it down or not?"

"I… I can't. The Pakhan’s family, his organization, they expect⁠—"

"Get Emil," I snap. "Get him in here right now."

She hesitates, then pulls out her phone and makes a quick call. Five minutes later, Emil walks into the sitting room. He's wearing dark slacks and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the tattoos on his forearms. His hair is slightly mussed, like he's been running his hands through it, and there's a tension in his shoulders that suggests I've interrupted something important.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his dark eyes moving between me and the planner.

"She wants a circus," I say, gesturing at the fabric samples. "I want something simple. She won't listen."

Emil looks at the planner. "Explain."

The planner launches into the same speech about tradition, expectations, and public declarations. Emil listens without interrupting, his expression unreadable.