Page 33 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
My father.
Akim Fyodorov.
The man who used to help with my algebra homework. Who grilled burgers in the backyard, his laugh loud enough to rattle the neighbors. Who kissed my forehead when I got my acceptance letter to medical school.
He’s here—dressed sharp, calm.
I press closer to the keyhole, my nails biting into the doorframe.
Across from him sits a man I recognize too well—Dr. Grayson Holloway, Director of the Hospital.Myhospital. The same one I fought to get into. The same one I thought I earned on merit.
Grayson leans forward, lowering his voice, but I catch enough—the words cutting like blades.
“The ER’s running low,” Grayson says. “Your shipment’s late.”
Father chuckles, a dark sound I’ve never heard from him before. “You’ll get your supply when the street’s paid. No freebies.”
“It’s not just the streets,” Grayson mutters, his jaw tight. “We’re mixing hospital stock already.”
The color drains from my face.
Hospital stock.
They’re pushing drugs through my hospital. Through the place I’ve poured my entire future into.
“Keep your staff quiet, your numbers clean,” Father warns, his voice like velvet over broken glass. “The Fyodorovs handle the rest.”
My knees nearly buckle.
I can’t breathe.
Trifon’s hand closes over my shoulder, steadying me from behind. His grip is warm, grounding—but I shake him off like his touch burns.
I stare through the keyhole, horror constricting my chest.
Grayson leans back, counting a stack of cash. My father pours two fingers of vodka, offering a glass across the table like they’re old friends sealing a routine deal.
And maybe they are.
I stumble back from the wall, my vision swimming.
“They’ve been—” My voice cracks. “They’ve been using my hospital—”
“Your father placed you there,” Trifon confirms quietly, watching me unravel. “They all did. To keep you clean.”
I cover my mouth, bile rising.
This isn’t real.
Everything I thought I earned was handpicked. Bought. Arranged.
But I did ace those exams, didn’t I? Unless Father paid off someone there as well.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my mouth.
Trifon wraps an arm around my waist, steadying me. “Let’s go.”
He guides me back to the elevator, then out to the car. I move on autopilot, my brain whirling with impossible truths. His car door opens, and I slide in without thinking, my world cracking wide open.
