Page 72 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
My heart stops, then races so fast I feel dizzy. My father looks exactly the same—silver at his temples, immaculate in his tuxedo. My brothers flank him like sentinels, all in matching black.
Before I can blink, before I can evenbreathe, Trifon is moving. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even look at me. He just takes my hand and leads me straight toward them.
I want to scream. To run. To collapse. Instead, I let him lead me straight into the nightmare because my brain doesn’t know how to process what’s going on.
I can’t feel my feet. My limbs move, but it’s like I’m underwater. My vision tunnels, locking onto my father’s face. He hasn’t seen me yet. None of them has. They’re too busy scanning the room.
And Trifon does the unthinkable.
He comes to a step right in front of them.
My father pales. My brothers gasp. I see it in their eyes—the shock of seeing me with Trifon.
“Father,” I say, my voice coming out weak and small.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?” my father roars, his eyes landing on where Trifon holds my hand.
Damien, my oldest brother, steps forward. “Yulia,” he says, his voice gentler than I remember. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, you care all of a sudden now?” Trifon glowers. “Considering you haven’t wondered where she’s been for what? Three months now?”
I clench Trifon’s hand tight, begging him to keep quiet. Begging him to remember that my family doesn’t know what’s happened. But Trifon? He doesn’t register the squeeze.
“How dare you?” Ilya steps forward. “We’ve tried calling. We thought she was busy at the hospital.”
“For three months?” Trifon looks incredulous.
“Yulia,” my father hisses. “What the hell are you doing with him?”
My father’s voice pierces through the chaos of the gala, demanding an explanation for what he sees. I stand frozen, my hand still clasped in Trifon’s, watching this exchange unfold, the panic rising in my chest.
“I believe it’s not unusual, is it, for a wife to be with her husband?”
The word lands like a grenade. I feel my heart fly like The Concord.
My father’s face goes rigid. “Your what?”
“Wife,” Trifon repeats, the word dripping with satisfaction. “We were married three months ago. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
Father’s eyes flash with barely controlled rage. “This is impossible.”
“Very possible,” Trifon counters. “And legal. Would you like to see the certificate?”
Trifon just watches them with that glint in his eyes—that quiet, dangerous satisfaction I’ve seen before when he knows he’s won.
I feel it then.
This was planned.
This was always the plan.
The tense car ride. The way he kept checking his watch. The gala’s location is on neutral ground. He brought me here forthis. To make a statement to my family that he’s staking a claim.
My stomach turns—not from nausea this time, but from the slow, burning realization spreading through my chest.
My brothers are staring at me now, with various degrees of shock and anger on their faces. But no one asks if I want this, if I’m okay. No one asks why I never told them.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Father hisses, his composure cracking.
