Page 14 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

Five bodies. My stomach dropped. I hadn’t seen that many.

I should have stepped forward right then and told them everything.

But then Dr. Chen caught me sneaking in. “Fyodorov! Where the hell have you been? We’re short-staffed after last night’s mess, and we need all hands on deck. Triple your patient load today.”

And just like that, I was swept into the chaos of a post-shooting ER—triaging patients, running labs, covering for colleagues who’d called out from trauma. By the time my sixteen-hour shift ended, the police were gone.

I told myself I’d report it tomorrow. And then tomorrow became the next day. And then the excuses piled up like bricks—the police had already interviewed witnesses; they had security footage; what difference would my statement make? And beneath it all, the fear: what if they came for me if I talked?

So here I am, three days later, pretending nothing happened. Pretending I don’t check over my shoulder every time I step outside.

I stitch up the impatient man in Exam Three, reset a dislocated shoulder in Five, and discharge four patients in quick succession. My shift’s almost over. Just one more patient, then a coffee break, then two more hours of rounds before I can crawl home and collapse.

My last patient before break is a six-year-old with a fever. She’s adorable, with missing front teeth and Hello Kitty Band-Aids all over her arms “for decoration.” I listen to her chest, smile at her mother, and prescribe antibiotics for what’s likely strep throat.

“All done,” I tell them, ruffling the little girl’s hair. “You’re very brave.”

The mom thanks me, and I escape into the hallway, finally free for my break. I slip out the side entrance, the one staff use to avoid the main doors where ambulances roll in. The crisp autumn air hits my face, and for the first time all day, I take a full breath.

The coffee shop is just across the small side street. I can already smell the roasting beans. My mouth waters at the thought of a vanilla latte with an extra shot—my reward for surviving another day.

I’m halfway across the street when I feel it—that prickle at the back of my neck. The feeling of being watched.

My steps falter. My heart kicks up, hammering against my ribs. Slowly, I turn, scanning the quiet street.

Nothing. Just parked cars, a few pedestrians hurrying past.

I’m being paranoid. Of course I am. It’s been three days. I’m safe.

I push through the coffee shop door, savoring the warmth and the buzz of normalcy. I order my latte, mindlessly scrolling through my phone while I wait. The barista calls my name, and I grab the cup, already sipping as I turn toward the door.

And freeze.

Because he’s there. Standing by the door. Blocking my exit.

Trifon Yuri.

“Hello, Doctor.” He smiles and moves toward me. “Miss me?”

My legs won’t move. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Run, my brain screams. But where? He’s between me and the only exit.

“You left without saying goodbye,” he continues, stepping closer. “That was rude.”

“Stay away from me,” I finally manage, backing up until I hit the counter. “I’ll scream.”

He smiles. “No, you won’t.”

And he’s right—because screaming means involving innocent people in whatever this is.

“What do you want?” I whisper.

He glances at his watch. “You’ll be late for your next patient if we don’t go now.”

My blood turns to ice. “How do you know my schedule?”

“I know everything about you, Yulia Fyodorov.” He says my name as if he’s savoring it. “Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Your choice.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I screech.