Page 76 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

I close the ledger carefully, my movements controlled despite the rage building beneath the surface. I can't let Kiera see how much this bothers me. Not tonight. Not when the evening has been so perfect.

"We should go," I say, my voice neutral.

She nods, but I can see the question in her eyes. She knows something is wrong. She's perceptive enough to notice the shift in my mood, the way my hand has tightened on the ledger.

As we walk back through the casino floor, my mind is already working through the possibilities. Who has access to the accounts? Who would be bold enough to steal from a Pakhan? And more importantly, what am I going to do about it?

31

KIERA

When we arrive at the casino exit, Emil turns to me with an expression I can't quite read.

"Get in the car," he says, nodding toward the waiting limousine. "The driver will take you back to the estate."

I blink, confused. "What? You're not coming?"

"No." His jaw is tight, his eyes distant. "Go."

"Emil, what happened? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Just go, Kiera." He's already turning away, his attention already elsewhere.

I stand there for a moment, wanting to argue, but something in his tone tells me it won't matter. So I get in the limousine alone, sliding across the leather seat as the driver closes the door behind me.

The drive back to the estate is silent and long. I sit in the back of the car, staring out at the city lights blurring past, trying to understand what just happened. One moment, we were having a pleasant evening together, and the next, he was looking at those ledgers and everything changed. He became cold. Distant. And now he's sent me away like I'm an inconvenience.

I don't sleep well that night. My mind keeps replaying the evening, trying to pinpoint the exact moment everything shifted. The casino was beautiful. The conversation was easy. And then he was looking at those numbers and something broke. He sent me away. He stayed behind. Whatever he discovered in those ledgers was important enough to dismiss me without explanation.

By morning, I've decided not to dwell on it. Emil has his secrets with his business and in his personal life. Secrets I'm probably better off not knowing. I wander the estate after breakfast, restless and bored. The staff moves around me, barely noticing me except for a polite nod here and there, and I realize I have nothing to do. No job to go to. No friends to call. No life outside these walls except for the wedding that's barreling toward me like a freight train.

I find myself in the library, absently running my fingers along the spines of books, when an idea strikes me. I need something to do. Something creative and all for me.

I find one of the housekeeping staff and ask if she has any paper and colored pencils. She looks surprised by the request but nods and disappears. Twenty minutes later, she returns with a stack of sketch paper, a box of colored pencils, and a set of fine-tip markers.

"Will this work, Miss?" she asks.

"It's perfect," I tell her, and I mean it.

I set up in the sunroom, spreading the paper across a large table and arranging the pencils by color. The light streams through the windows, and for the first time since arriving at this estate, I feel something like peace settle over me.

I start sketching the wedding dress I've been imagining. Not the monstrosity the wedding planner wanted. Not the traditional white ball gown that would make me look like a frosted cake. Something simpler and that's actually me.

The pencil moves across the paper almost of its own accord. I sketch a dress with clean lines, a fitted bodice that would show off my figure without being obscene, and a skirt that flows from the waist in soft waves. I add delicate beading along the neckline, just enough to catch the light without overwhelming the design. The back is open, daring, with thin straps that cross in an X pattern. It's elegant and sexy and absolutely perfect.

As I work, I realize this dress represents something more than just fabric and thread. It's my declaration of independence within this forced marriage. It's me saying that even though Emil has taken control of so much of my life, he can't control this. He can't control how I present myself on our wedding day. The design is bold and unconventional, just like I'm trying to be. Each line I draw feels like reclaiming a piece of myself that I thought was lost.

I lose myself in the work and hours pass without me noticing. The colored pencils glide across the paper, creating shadows and depth. I refine the design, add details, and shade in the fabric texture with careful precision. The beading becomes more intricate as I work, each bead a small act of rebellion against the wedding planner's vision. I sketch the dress from multiple angles. Front, back, and side views. I draw it on different body types to make sure the proportions work, imagining how it will move when I walk and how it will feel against my skin.

The sensory details matter to me now. I think about the weight of the fabric, the way silk would drape differently from satin. I imagine the beading catching the light as I move, creating a subtle shimmer that draws the eye without screaming for attention. I picture myself walking down the aisle in this dress, feeling powerful and beautiful and in control of at least this one thing.

By the time I step back to look at what I've created, the sun has shifted across the sky and my fingers are stained with colored pencil dust. It's beautiful. I'm actually proud of it.

But I'm not done yet.

I flip to a fresh page and start sketching Emil's wedding outfit. I imagine him in a tailored suit, something that would complement his dark coloring and the intensity of his eyes. I sketch a jacket with clean lines, a subtle pattern woven into the fabric. I add a vest, something that would show off his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The shirt is crisp white, the tie a deep charcoal that would match his eyes.

As I draw, I find myself thinking about him. About the way he moves with such controlled power and the intensity in his gaze when he looks at me. About the contradiction between the man who makes me laugh and the man who beats people in interrogation rooms. I'm creating an outfit for a man I'm terrified of and attracted to in equal measure, and somehow, that feels fitting.