Page 26 of Marrying the Pakhan

“Fine.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Harper.” My name comes out clipped, not unkind, but final, a door closing on the question before I can push it further.

I want to press him on it, want to ask what exactly about an old man’s quiet voice put that look on his face. But the judge is already moving the proceedings along, and Denise is already rising to redirect.

I turn my attention back to the front of the room, though some part of me stays fixed on the stillness in Viktor’s hand, refusing to fully let go of mine even now.

The hearing grinds on. Denise makes her closing points, sharp and confident, the marriage entered cleanly into the record, the stability argument landing exactly the way we hoped it would.

The Ivanovs’ lawyer makes her final push, painting me one more time as unstable, unfit, married into danger I supposedly can’t understand.

The judge announces she’ll take the matter under brief recess before ruling, fifteen minutes, and the room stands. Viktor’s hand finally loosens around mine, though his face doesn’t loosen with it.

We step out into the hallway together, and Denise catches up to us a moment later, already talking. “That went about as well as it could have. I’ll have the written ruling motion filed by tomorrow, but off the record, I’d be shocked if the judge doesn’t rule in our favor. I want to go over a few details with you both before you leave, if you have a minute.”

“Of course,” I say, though half my attention is still on Viktor, who’s gone quiet beside me in a way that has nothing to do with Denise.

Denise walks us through what happens next, the timeline for the ruling, and what to expect if the Ivanovs try to appeal, and I only half absorb the practical things because I’m watching Viktor nod along at all the right moments while looking like he’s somewhere else entirely.

She excuses herself once she’s covered everything, off to catch her next client, and the second she’s out of earshot I turn to him.

“Viktor.” I keep my voice low, pulling him a few steps away from the crowd spilling out of the courtroom. “What was that in there? You went completely rigid.”

“It was nothing.” He says it easily, already reaching for his phone like the conversation’s over. “Old business rivalry getting dragged up somewhere it doesn’t belong. Lawyers do that, dig up anything that sounds bad, whether or not it’s actually relevant.”

“You didn’t look like a man annoyed by a cheap tactic. You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

“I looked like a man who doesn’t enjoy hearing his name used as a weapon in a courtroom. That’s all this is.” He slides an arm around my shoulders, casual, steering us both toward the exit.

11

VIKTOR

The judge’s ruling barely registers as words.

“Custody is granted to the petitioner.” She says it flat, the way she’s probably said it a thousand times before, filing paperwork with her voice more than delivering news. “The court finds the current household stable and the marriage, while recent, sufficient grounds to deny the respondents’ petition. The court will additionally grant the respondents supervised visitation, four hours biweekly, given the child’s existing relationship with her paternal grandparents. Details to be arranged through counsel.”

Somewhere behind me, Denise exhales, long and slow, the exhale of someone whose weeks of work just paid off.

Harper’s hand finds mine under the table again, gripping hard enough that I know she’s relieved, that this is the outcome we came here for. I squeeze back on instinct, on muscle memory.

The part of me that should be celebrating with her is still sitting three rows back, staring at an old man who isn’t supposed to exist anymore.

Pavel Ivanov.

Ivanov meant nothing to me a month ago. Common name. I never had a name for the man from the warehouse, only his face.

That’s why I didn’t catch it sooner.

I knew him as a face across a warehouse floor eleven years ago, lit by headlights during a standoff that nearly ended both our organizations in one night.

Twelve of my men against fifteen of his, guns drawn on both sides, close enough to a bloodbath that I still remember the specific silence right before someone decided against pulling a trigger. Neither side ever agreed on who backed down first.

Both sides walked away, which at the time felt like the only victory worth having.

Less than a year later, his face disappeared from every corner of this business, presumed dead by everyone who mattered, myself included.