Page 40 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

“I showed her,” I correct. “Took her to New York. Let her see for herself.”

“Jesus,” he mutters. “She must hate you.”

I think of the fire in Yulia’s eyes when she found those files in my office. The way she looked at me on the plane back from New York, like I’d destroyed her world.

“Maybe,” I admit. “But she’s safer with me than alone, especially now that she knows the truth.”

Valentin shakes his head, but I can see the calculation behind his eyes. He’s not happy, but he’s working through the logic.

“This is a dangerous game,” he says finally.

“When have we ever played any other kind?” I respond, clapping him on the shoulder. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

He gives me a long look. “For all our sakes, I hope you do.”

When I return to the living room, Nadya is asleep, and Yulia is gathering the bloodied towels, her movements mechanical, her face downcast with exhaustion.

Valentin stalks off toward the kitchen, muttering something about needing coffee.

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her. “The staff will clean up.”

She doesn’t stop. “I need to keep my hands busy.”

I watch her for a moment, this woman who just saved my sister’s life. Who showed more kindness to a stranger than most people in our world would ever consider.

“Thank you,” I say finally. “For helping Nadya.”

Yulia pauses, not looking at me. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know.” And I do. That’s what makes it so remarkable. “But thank you anyway.”

She straightens, pushing a strand of hair from her face with the back of her wrist. “I’m a doctor. It’s what I do.”

“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Why become a doctor?”

The question seems to catch her off guard. She looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time since New York.

“Because I wanted to help people,” she says simply. “I always have. Even as a kid, I was the one bandaging neighborhood pets, patching up scraped knees.”

A bitter smile crosses her face. “I thought I was making my own choices.”

The implication hangs between us—that even this, her passion, might have been orchestrated by her family.

“Some things can’t be faked,” I tell her. “The way you handled yourself just now? No one could force that.”

She looks away, but not before I catch the flicker of gratitude in her eyes.

“I should shower,” she says, glancing down at her blood-stained clothes. “I’m a mess.”

I nod. “Go ahead. I’ll finish here.”

She starts to leave, then hesitates at the doorway. “This gala thing—”

“You don’t have to go,” I cut in. “I’ll make excuses to Nadya.”

“No, it’s not that.” She fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “I just... I don’t have anything to wear. All my clothes are still at my apartment, and even if they weren’t—” She gestures vaguely. “I don’t exactly own gala-appropriate attire. Being a resident doesn’t leave much time for social events.”

For some reason, this small admission—this glimpse into the normal life she led before I crashed into it—makes me feel like she’s opening up to me.