Page 43 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
I stare at my reflection and barely recognize the woman looking back at me.
Poised. Polished. Like she belongs in this glittering world.
The thought is terrifying. It’s so far removed from the life I called my own.
A soft knock breaks through my daze.
“Come in,” I call, expecting one of the staff.
But it’s not a maid.
It’s him.
Trifon steps into the room, and suddenly there’s not enough air.
He’s in a black tuxedo that fits like a second skin, every line of him cut sharp and clean. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, his dark hair slicked back, jaw clean-shaven. Even his cufflinks look lethal.
He stops in his tracks. Those ice-blue eyes take me in like he’s starving.
For once, it’s not me who’s speechless.
“You look…” His voice roughens. “You’re beautiful.”
I swallow the dryness forming in my throat. “Thanks. You don’t look half-bad yourself.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “I’ll pretend that’s generous.”
We just stand there, the silence between us thick and humming. I fidget with my bracelet, suddenly hyperaware of everything—his gaze, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitch like he’s holding himself back.
“Nadya and Darya stopped by earlier,” I say, trying to fill the space between us with something safe.
“I heard.” His voice is softer now. “They like you.”
“I like them too,” I admit. “They’re… sweet.”
“You sure we’re talking about the same people?” he says dryly, brow cocking.
I laugh, grateful for the break in tension. “Okay—sweet might be pushing it. But they were kind to me.”
He nods once, then takes a step closer.
“I’m glad,” he says simply. “You deserve kind.”
His gaze lingers on me, dropping briefly to the neckline of my dress, then tracing the curve of my bare shoulder before snapping back to my eyes. He shifts his weight like he’s trying not to reach for me.
I feel it too. This awareness. This heat.
He holds out a hand, palm open. “Ready?”
I hesitate only a second before sliding my fingers into his. “As I’ll ever be.”
He smiles. And as I take his arm, I feel the weight of his gaze slide back over me. He doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
***
The gala is a fever dream of gold lighting and glittering glasses, a sea of dark suits and jeweled dresses. The emerald-green gown clings to me like a whisper, elegant and understated, but I still feel like a fraud the moment we enter the ballroom.
“Remember,” Trifon murmurs as we walk deeper into the dazzling ballroom, his hand warm against the small of my back, “you’re my wife tonight. Just smile and let me do the talking if you feel stressed out.”
