Page 7 of The Pakhan's Bride

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"I wanted charm," I say, stepping out beside him onto the street.

And it is charming. Not in the gilded, slap-in-your-face way the Ritz can be, but in the way real things are. The windows wear lace curtains. The courtyard has ivy climbing up its flanks like a lover unwilling to let go. Even the brass doorknob feels warm, sweet. Dimitri snorts softly, but he doesn't protest. He tips the concierge more than necessary and makes a show of checking exits, inspecting the elevator, speaking briefly to the man behind the desk. His job is to shadow, protect, report. But when he follows me upstairs, he grumbles, "At least the croissants had better be good."

The room itself is modest, with parquet floors and white linen sheets. A wrought-iron balcony opens to the street below, where café tables have already begun filling with early diners and young lovers who speak French too quickly and kiss without shame. From my window, I can see them all. The man in the blue coat rolling a cigarette with one hand while his date leans in laughing. the girl in the red scarf writing something in anotebook and sipping from a glass of wine. It feels so perfect, this life that I cannot have, save for a taste.

An hour bleeds into two, and soon, I'm restless. Dimitri sits in the corner chair, polishing his watch. He has not changed from his travel clothes. His coat lies neatly folded, his bag unpacked. He doesn't move like a tourist. He moves like a man who's never truly off-duty. I stand at the window, bathed in that perfect golden-pink hue Paris gifts to the willing. My hand curls around the iron of the balcony rail. "I want to go out," I say finally.

He lifts one brow. "Okay, I'll just?—"

"Alone."

His silence says more than words. Finally, he exhales through his nose. "Zoya…"

"I know the rules," I interrupt softly. "I know the risks. But it's my one week. My last week. Let me have this,Dyadya."

He looks at me a long time. His face is hard to read, but the corners of his mouth soften. Maybe he's remembering the girl who once tried to barter her tiara for ice cream in St. Petersburg. "You'll be back in three hours," he says with a sigh.

"Four," I counter, my heart already skipping a beat. "I'll answer your call. I'm not running, I promise. What's the point, anyway? I'll always be found."

He quirks a brow at me. "Is that such a bad thing, Zoya? You speak like someone who has lived far too long in luxury to understand what true pain looks like."

His observation lands on me like needles pricking into skin, but I know he speaks out of love for both me and the family. "I?—"

Instead of letting me finish, he raises a hand and silences me. "Go, but give your name to no one."

I nod quickly. "I'm not stupid."

The corner of his mouth lifts. "I didn't say you were."

I blow him a kiss and slip into my coat before slipping out, and then, the streets welcome me like an old friend as Paris unfolds in front of me like a living poem. Streetlamps cast halos onto the wet stones. Music spills from a saxophonist on Rue de Buci, notes curling like cigarette smoke around lovers slow-dancing in the shadows. The breeze smells of butter and wine, rain and roasted chestnuts. No one looks at me twice. My heels click softly as I pass bookstores with sleeping cats in the windows, wine bars where patrons lean into each other's laughter, bridges with lovers' locks glowing faintly in the moonlight. I walk with no destination. Past the Seine, where the river glimmers silver. Past the bouquinistes whose green boxes have been shut for the night but still smell of old ink and stories. I pause on the Pont des Arts, hand resting on the cool railing, watching the lights ripple on the water. A barge passes below, strung with fairy lights, and a girl in a white dress lifts her arms in delight as someone spins her in a waltz.

The ache in my chest is sweet. Like a wound that doesn't hurt anymore, only lingers.

I buy a crepe from a man whose cart smells like sugar and cinnamon, and he hands it to me wrapped in brown paper. His smile is lined with years. He says something I don't catch, and I laugh anyway, nodding like I understand.

In that moment, I almost do.

I sit on the steps of a closed chapel, knees tucked beneath my coat, and watch the world unfold. Strangers drift past me in constellations. Some hold hands. Some sing softly. A boy carries a bouquet of violets. An old woman smokes alone. Paris doesn't ask who you are. It only asks if you're listening. Getting up, I turn the corner past the shuttered chapel, its stone archways still catching the last lavender-gold light. A pair of pigeons scatters from the stoop. Behind me, the iron gates creak in the wind, and further back still, the glow of the hotel fades from sight. I checkmy phone. Two hours gone since I slipped out. Two more remain before I'm due back. It vibrates a second later.

Dimitri.

I answer with a small smile. "I'm still breathing."

"I never doubted it," he replies, though his voice is tight, careful. "You're not going to make me regret giving you space, are you?"

"Not unless you count spending too much on pastry."

"You're your mother's daughter." A pause. "You're close by?"

"Still walking distance. Rue de Lappe, I think. Maybe Rue de la Bastille next."

"Zoya," he says, voice quieter now. "I know I gave you space. But be responsible with it,dorogaya. Your father's trust comes at a high cost. Don't waste it."

I smile a little guiltily. "I won't."

"You call if anything feels wrong."

"I promise." With a soft goodbye, I end the call.