Page 77 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

I add details to the jacket, a subtle embroidery along the lapels that echoes the beading on my dress. It's a small touch, but it ties our outfits together. The embroidery is intricate, almost hidden unless you look closely, which feels like a metaphor for our relationship. We're connected in ways that aren't immediately obvious to the outside world, but the connection is there, woven into the fabric of who we are.

By the time dinner rolls around, I've filled nearly twenty pages with sketches. I'm excited, buzzing with creative energy, and eager to show Emil what I've designed. Emil arrives at dinner looking exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his jaw is clenched so tightly, I'm worried he'll crack a tooth. He barely looks at me as he sits down, and I realize immediately that whatever was bothering him at the casino has only gotten worse.

"Hi," I say, trying to sound cheerful. "How was your day?"

"Fine," he says, cutting into his steak without really looking at it.

I wait for him to ask about mine, but he doesn't. He just eats mechanically, his mind clearly somewhere else. The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. I try again.

"I did something today. I'd like to show you."

"Hmm?" He glances up, but his eyes are unfocused, looking through me rather than at me. "That's nice."

The dismissal stings more than I expect it to. I push forward anyway, determined to break through whatever wall he's put up.

"I designed my wedding dress," I continue, my voice brighter than I feel. "And I designed your outfit, too. I think they work really well together. The beading on my dress echoes the embroidery on your jacket, and the colors complement each other perfectly. I was thinking we could go to the fabric shop tomorrow to pick out materials. I have some ideas about what would work best for the designs, and I think if we find the right fabrics, we could really make something special."

Emil nods absently, taking a sip of wine. His fingers tap against the table in an anxious and distracted rhythm. He's not here with me. Not really.

"That sounds good," he says, but the words are hollow.

"So, I can design them?" I ask, needing confirmation, needing him to actually engage with me. "My dress and your outfit? I mean, really design them, not just pick something off a rack?"

"Yes, of course," he says, still not really listening. "Whatever you want."

I study him for a long moment, wondering if he even realizes what he's agreeing to. Does he understand that I'm not just talking about picking out a dress? I'm talking about creating something that represents our marriage. Something that will be photographed and remembered. Something that matters. Something that's mine.

But he's already looking away, his attention drifting back to whatever's consuming his thoughts. His steak sits half-eaten on his plate, and he hasn't touched his wine in several minutes. The distance between us feels wider than the length of the table.

I try one more time. "Emil, are you sure you're okay? You seem really distant tonight."

He looks at me then, and for a moment I think he might actually tell me what's wrong. His dark eyes search mine, and I see something flicker across his face. Conflict. Concern. But then the shutters come down again.

"I'm fine," he says, and the lie hangs between us like a physical thing. "Just tired."

We finish dinner in silence. Emil pushes his plate away, barely having eaten half of it, and stands up. "I need to work," he says, and it's not really a question or an apology. It's just a statement of fact.

"Of course," I say, trying not to sound disappointed. Trying not to sound hurt.

He leans down and kisses the top of my head, another one of those automatic gestures that feels hollow. Then he's gone, disappearing toward his office and leaving me alone at the table with my untouched dessert.

I sit there for a moment, feeling the weight of his absence. The excitement I felt all day drains out of me, replaced by a hollow ache in my chest. I push back my chair and find one of the staffers in the kitchen.

"I'd like to go to the fabric shop tomorrow," I tell her. "Is that something that can be arranged?"

"Of course, Miss," she says. "I'll speak with the driver. What time would you like to go?"

"Morning," I say. "Early, if possible. I want to have plenty of time to look."

She nods and makes a note. I thank her and head toward my room. I'm walking down the hallway, passing the closed door to Emil's office, when I hear voices inside.

I'm about to keep walking when I hear my brother's name.

"Jack Walker," someone says, and I freeze.

"He's becoming a problem," another voice responds.

"Something needs to be done about him," Emil says quietly. "Before he gets himself killed."