Page 82 of His Forced Bride
"She doesn't know about any of this, does she? The legal challenges, the inheritance claims, the fact that everything she built might disappear into court battles and lawyer fees. You're protecting her from the truth."
"I'm protecting her from you."
"How noble. The great Yuri Gravitch, shielding his innocent bride from harsh realities."
Her voice turns mocking.
"Or perhaps you're afraid of what she'll choose when she learns the full scope of her options."
I stand, signaling the end of our conversation.
"This meeting is over."
"Think carefully about your position."
She remains seated, swirling wine in her glass.
"I have documentation, expert testimony, forensic evidence. What do you have? A marriage certificate signed under duressand a wife who doesn't know the extent of her husband's deceptions. Or was the marriage license forged too?"
"I have lawyers who eat predators for breakfast," I growl as I tuck my tie away and button my suit coat.
"You have lawyers who can delay the inevitable. But the truth has a way of emerging eventually."
She takes another sip of wine.
"And when it does, my daughter will understand exactly who's been lying to her."
I leave her sitting in the private dining room, surrounded by the trappings of wealth she's never earned and power she's never wielded.
But her words follow me through the hotel lobby, into the St. Petersburg streets, and during the entire drive back to the compound.
She's right about one thing—truth has a way of surfacing.
And when Inessa learns about her mother's schemes, about the forged documents and inheritance challenges, about the legal battles that could destroy everything she's built, she'll have to choose between fighting for her legacy and accepting whatever crumbs survive the litigation.
15
INESSA
The wooden crate sits in the corner of the guest room where Rosa left it this morning, untouched since I discovered it hours ago.
It's full of professional art supplies—oils, brushes, canvases, an easel.
Everything I haven't touched since Batya died, everything I thought I'd never want again.
But I do want them.
And the desire to pour myself back into my sketches and designs feels like the only way I'll get relief from the grief I'm carrying.
I haven't even been able to lay Batya to rest and life has become a war zone.
I pry open the lid and lift out a tube of ultramarine blue, rolling it between my palms.
The weight is familiar and comforting in a way, almost nostalgic.
When was the last time I mixed colors on a palette?
When did I last lose myself in the flow of paint across canvas?
