Page 78 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride
“Why, Anya?” I demand. I’ve already opened the topic, and I want answers, so there’s no backing down now.
She closes her eyes and stands up, taking a step away from me.
I stand too, and she turns to walk from the bathroom, out into the living room, standing near the bookshelf with her back to me.
“I don’t want to talk about this, Emmanuil. It’s over, can we just let it go and move on?” Her voice is quiet. “Why will the details change anything? You’ve made up your mind about me.”
“I can’t move on,” I shout. “I can’t let it go. And you can’t do this again. You can’t leave me not knowing, questioning everything. It’s cruel and unfair.”
She turns to look at me with shock and hurt in her eyes.
“Cruel?” she asks, barely a whisper. “You were the cruel one this time,” she snaps.
“Although—I deserve it,” she whispers afterwards.
“What the fuck?” I shout, striding towards her, ignoring the ache in my side. I glare down at her. “You don’t get to accuse me of being cruel. Tell me what the fucking note meant.”
I tug her handwritten letter from my back pocket and shove it into her hands. The white paper is crinkled from reading it too many times, torn at the edges from when I threw it, then carefully folded again and smoothed out as best I could. It’s my last connection to her. She touched it. Her hands embraced it. It holds a piece of her, even if it’s not what I wanted to read; it’s still something of her that I was latching onto.
She holds it, staring at it for a long time. Tears roll down her cheeks and splash onto the paper, soaking it so that some of the ink shines through the folded piece.
“It was my father, Emmanuil,” she sighs, breaking down and opening up, finally answering me.
“What did your father do?” I urge her on.
“Towards the end of us being together, you and I stopped worrying about what other people thought. We stopped hiding our relationship.”
“Because we wanted to get married. And we weren’t going to let anyone stand in our way,” I add.
“The problem is that my father was one of the people we stopped hiding from. He found out I was dating you, and his reaction was—intense.”
She sits down on the sofa, still holding the letter. She speaks without looking at me.
“My father lectured me for ages. He pulled me aside one day and told me I had to break up with you or he would end it himself. I listened, but I dismissed his warnings as him being overprotective and controlling. What did my father care about who I dated, anyway? He was never around, and when he was—well, he made it clear he didn’t even like me, so I didn’t care about his opinion, and I didn’t believe his warnings.”
I walk across the living room, sit down next to her, listening intently.
My heart is racing, finally hearing the truth, years of confusion coming to an end in this moment.
Anya pulls her mouth to the side, sighing softly, then carries on. “Of course, when I didn’t break up with you, he was even angrier. He went out of his way to show me just how serious he was. First, he told me he would kill you and everyone you love. Every member of your family. He told me he would make you watch them die and then he would—" she pauses, the agony of this memory darkening her eyes. “He made it very clear what would happen to you.
“I argued with him, because I was so in love with you and not willing to let you go. I remember the look in his eyes when I told him to go to hell. He let me storm off to my bedroom, slamming my door in anger.
“But that night, in the dead of night, he pulled me from my bed and drove me to one of his warehouses. In a dark, dusty, concrete room underground, he had a man chained to the wall with a hood over his head. I thought it was you. He made me believe it was you. My father cuffed me to the opposite wall, and he tortured this man in front of me. I begged. I screamed. I pleaded with him to stop, but he wouldn’t. For over an hour in that dark room, he wouldn’t let me look away, and I watched the life drain from this man. Fromyou. While I stood helplessly, wishing I could be the one who was dying.
“When he unchained me, I ran straight to your side. Your lifeless body, covered in cuts and bruises, lay on the cold concrete floor in a pool of your blood. I pulled you onto my lap and tugged the hood off your head—and it wasn’t you.
“It wasn’t you. I was so relieved, but then so guilty, because his man died in your place. How dare I feel relieved. He suffered because I didn’t listen to my father. And the pain of thinking it was you was still—it was still—"
Her voice breaks as she folds forward, hiding her face in her hands. Her story is so evil, so brutal, that I can’t move as I watch her relive the memories.
Anya fights for control, her hands shaking, as I wait in disbelief.
“Your father,” I stammer, my body burning with hatred for the man.
“My father made his point. He told me I had to dump you and not utter a word of his involvement,” she says coldly. “AndI knew without any hesitation that he would do to you what I’d seen him do to this stranger. This was the one and only chance he would give me to do as I was told. He would do it to you, and he would do it to your family. I had no choice, Em. I had to leave you.
“That night was the last time I ever saw you. I went to your place so that I could tell you in person, but when I looked into your eyes, I was weak. I was pathetic. I couldn’t break up with you face-to-face. The words wouldn’t come to me. I kept picturing that man’s pain. You know, I’ve never been able to forget him, but I am eternally grateful that it wasn’t you.”
