Page 34 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
Trifon explains softly as the car weaves through the streets. “Your father supplies hospitals across the East Coast with pharmaceuticals that haven’t passed FDA approval yet. Highly profitable and illegal. Hospitals save money. Patients get treated. Your father makes millions. Everyone wins.”
“That’s not winning,” I hiss. “That’s playing with people’s lives!”
“Welcome to the real world, Yulia.”
I don’t ask where we’re going. I don’t care. I just need to be away from this nightmare.
The tears finally come as we drive. I don’t bother wiping them away. Let them fall. Let everything fall apart.
“How long have you known?” I ask after a while, voice hollow.
“About your family? Years.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me sooner?”
He glances over, his expression unreadable. “Would you have believed me without proof?”
No. I wouldn’t have. I’d have fought him, denied it, called him a liar. Just like I did.
The car pulls up to a fancy-looking hotel. Trifon leads me through the lobby, straight to the elevators, his hand never leaving the small of my back.
The suite is massive—all cream and gold, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. I walk to the glass, staring out at the skyline that suddenly feels alien to me.
“What happens now?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
I expect him to gloat. To tell me he was right all along, wasn’t he? To enjoy pointing out how naïve I was.
Instead, he surprises me.
“Now,” he says, “you should get some rest. I’ll be back in the morning.”
I turn, confused. “You’re leaving?”
“You need space.” He heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Order whatever you want. Watch TV. Cry. Scream. Do whatever you need to do. No one will bother you.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the wreckage of my reality.
I stand frozen for a long moment, waiting for the catch. But the door doesn’t reopen. I’m just... alone.
I move to the minibar, grab the first bottle I find—vodka, how fitting—and sink onto the plush couch. The alcohol burns as it goes down, a welcome distraction from the chaos raging inside me.
My family lied to me.
My entire life is a fabrication.
And I’m married to a man who is exactly what my family is—Bratva. A criminal. A liar.
I drink until the edges blur, until the tears run dry, until exhaustion claims me and I collapse into darkness.
Morning arrives with brutal sunshine and a pounding headache. I’m still on the couch, an empty bottle tipped over on the floor beside me. The knock at the door makes me wince.
“Go away,” I croak.
The door opens anyway. Trifon steps in, looking irritatingly fresh and put-together.
“Time to go,” he says, eyeing the empty bottle but making no comment.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I mutter, but even I can hear the defeat in my voice.
