Page 6 of The Pakhan's Bride
I feel a shift inside myself, like tumblers falling in a lock. This is the moment. The gambit I've waited for. I calibrate my next move carefully. "I understand my duty," I say softly. "I always have."
His eyebrow raises slightly at the change in my tone.
"Tonight was…" I allow my voice to falter, just once. "The room was overwhelming, and I may have played it wrong." I take a slow breath. "I wanted to make a good impression, not seem desperate. I thought a brief mystery would be more intriguing than throwing myself at him immediately."
Papa's eyes narrow, assessing the shift in my strategy. I take a step forward. "I'll make it right with the Riccis. I'll do whatever is required for our family." I let tears gather in my eyes, not enough to fall, just enough to glisten in the dim light. "But I ask one concession."
"You're not in a position to negotiate."
"Not a negotiation. A request." I keep my voice humble. "A few days in Paris before the summit resumes." The plea comes out as a whisper. "After that, I promise I'll settle down, fulfill my obligations. Be the daughter you need me to be."
Silence stretches between us. Papa's fingers tap against the wood. Once. Twice. Three times. "Paris," he repeats.
"Yes."
I hold my breath as he considers. My tears remain perfectly balanced, neither falling nor receding. My hands stay loosely clasped, betraying no tension. Papa returns to his chair. His face gives away nothing as he assesses me. For three generations, the Baranov family has built an empire by reading lies in the flicker of an eyelid, the twitch of a mouth. He sees through most deceptions in seconds.
"You've never begged for anything before," he says finally.
"I'm not begging now." I straighten my shoulders. "I'm offering a compromise."
He pours himself another measure of cognac. The amber liquid catches the lamplight as he swirls it. "One week. Then you return and do your duty without complaint or evasion,Zoyechka. I love you, my daughter, but enough is enough."
Relief floods my chest, but I control it, allowing only a small nod.
"If you disappoint me again," he adds, "there won't be another chance. The consequences will be…" He takes a sip of his drink, chewing the inside of his cheek. "Permanent."
"I understand."
He dismisses me with a grunt and a wave. "Go. Pack. You leave tomorrow."
I turn to leave, each step tentative until I reach the door.
"Zoya." His voice stops me. "Do you imagine I don't know when you're lying to me?"
My hand freezes on the doorknob. I don't turn around.
"Perhaps I allow it because I'm curious what game you're playing," he continues. "Or perhaps I know that whatever small rebellions you indulge in, you're still my daughter. Still a Baranov."
I open the door. "Goodnight, Father."
His chuckle follows me into the hallway, entirely sounding like someone who's never lost in his whole, long life.
3
ZOYA
Next morning, I watch Moscow recede through polarized glass, my reflection faint against the clouds beyond. This isn't a commercial flight. It's Baranov property, fitted with cream leather seats and dark mahogany panels, tailored for men who double as rulers. The family insignia is stitched in silver thread across the cashmere throw folded beside my seat, as discreet as a signature in blood. Dimitri, Papa'szamestitel, had been summoned to supervise. His orders are clear—do not let Zoya vanish. Escort her to Paris. Return with a report.
And yet, when he meets me at the station, there's a warmth in his smile that doesn't belong in a bodyguard's dossier. He calls medevochkaunder his breath and offers me a wrapped piece of cherry candy before the porter appears. I have known Dimitri since I was small enough to hide beneath my mother's skirts during council visits. He once lifted me out of a fountain after I tried to catch a goldfish with my bare hands. He once broke a man's wrist for touching my arm in a ballroom. He has never called me by my title.
"You've packed light," he observes, adjusting the strap on my second bag.
"Paris isn't for armor," I respond.
We land about four hours later, and I'm promptly escorted into a cab by Dimitri. As part of my requests for the week, I'm allowed to choose my own form of travel, and gratitude sits easily on my chest. The hotel stands in the 6th Arrondissement, nestled between a centuries-old fromagerie and a shuttered perfumery whose sign still smells faintly of lavender and musk. The cab turns off Boulevard Saint-Germain, tires rattling over cobblestones. Above, the buildings lean inward as if conspiring in whispers. Below, the pavement gleams like glass where the last rain has dried unevenly.
"This is it?" Dimitri asks with a grimace as the cab stops and we get down, glancing at the address again.
