Page 30 of The Pakhan's Bride
I rise, brushing imaginary lint off my dress. "If you're done with me, I have a son to tutor."
He waves me off, amused.
Down the hall, the breeze goes cooler. The doors are wide, the floors so clean they shine. I find Lev in his now fully furnished room upstairs, hunched over a workbook the size of a brick. His tutor is a young woman with brown hair and the patience of a saint. She's teaching him fractions in Russian and English, alternating every problem. He is bored but polite, my son in every way.
I watch for a minute. He finishes the page, then glances up and sees me. His face cracks in a grin and he gives a tiny wave. I wave back. The tutor looks up, sees me, and nods with relief. I open the door. "Can I steal him?" I ask.
The tutor gathers her papers and flees with a grateful smile. Lev hops off his chair and runs to me. I kneel and catch him, all elbows and knees and warmth. "Was it boring?" I ask.
He shrugs. "She's better than the old one."
"Good."
He tucks his face into my shoulder. For a moment, the world shrinks to just us. Then, I give him something to eat and he finishes his homework and busies himself with his Legos. I check on Galina. She's in the kitchen that comes with the suite, making dough for pirozhki and bullying the chef out of his own domain. The sight of her hands in flour, the hum of her voice as she mutters at the yeast, is the closest thing to safety I've felt since Paris.
I watch her, looking for signs of fear, sadness, anger. I see none. She's in her element, queen of the domestic kingdom.When she catches my eye, she points at the rising dough and gives a wink. I smile back. We eat dinner together, just the three of us. Konstantin does not join. Lev asks if he can visit the library. I say yes. He bolts, eager to escape. Galina cleans the dishes with militant efficiency, then disappears to her room.
I take my tea to the balcony and watch the sunset over the city. The skyline glows orange, then dims to blue. I drink the heat down to the last bitter drop, then I do my hundredth tour of this massive place that still doesn't feel like home, mapping every corridor, every blind corner. The architecture is new but the bones are old—postwar concrete, wood from forests razed to build palaces like this. I trail my hand along the paneling, searching for seams. In my father's house, every room had three exits—the one for guests, the one for servants, and the one for escape. I do not expect less from Konstantin.
The guards nod when I pass, their eyes polite but alert. They've been briefed to treat me with respect but not with trust. I watch their posture, the way their hands hover near their weapons, the way they track my steps even when pretending not to. They're good. Not perfect, but good.
The house is alive at all hours. Servants clean, cook, run messages. The inner circle stalks the halls with dossiers and encrypted phones. There's an armory on the basement level. I know because I saw three men come out carrying crates, and the way they smiled said nothing in those boxes was legal.
I test the limits. I walk routes that double back, loop through kitchens, skirt the private elevator. I try doors, count cameras, clock the rotation of security teams. In the east wing, a hallway ends at a heavy black door guarded by two men. They're different from the others, military cut, no insignia, faces clean-shaven and bored. Stopping three meters away, I cross my arms and stare.
The guard on the left glances at his partner, then at me. "Can I help you, Mrs. Vetrov?"
I don't know if I'll ever get used to the name, but I take it in my stride. "What's behind the door?"
"Private vault," he replies immediately. "No access."
I raise a brow at him. "For anyone?"
He hesitates. "No one, ma'am."
I step closer, stopping just inside their reach. "You know, in my family, locked doors were an invitation."
The guard shifts, not quite blocking me but making a point. His right hand rests on the butt of his rifle, a warning as soft as a love note. I consider pushing, but not today. I run my finger along the seam of the door, feel the chill of metal. I look both men in the eyes, memorize their color, the lines around their mouths, the precise shape of their ears. Never know which detail will matter.
"Tell Konstantin I was here," I say.
The guards exchange a look but don't reply.
I walk away, casual, but my heart beats double-time. I replay the scene a hundred ways—if I'd smiled less, if I'd asked more, if I'd moved a half-step to the left. Making it back to the family wing, I check on Lev who now has his nose buried in Pushkin. I touch his hair. He leans into me and then goes back to the page.
A quick shower, and then I dress for dinner and slip into Konstantin's office without knocking. He's at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie abandoned, fingers dancing over a stack of contracts. He smells like aftershave and expensive bourbon.
He doesn't look up. "Busy day?"
I drop into the chair opposite. "Your guards are overconfident."
"They have reason to be."
"Overconfidence gets men killed."
He glances at me, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Planning a coup?"
I match his tone. "Would you see it coming?"
