Page 41 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “We’ll figure it out.”

She studies me for a long moment. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

The question catches me off guard. “You just saved my sister’s life. I’m not a complete monster.”

“No,” she agrees softly. “I guess you’re not.”

She turns and heads upstairs, leaving me standing amid the wreckage of the day, my heart beating in a rhythm I don’t quite recognize.

For the first time since this mess began, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—this forced marriage isn’t the disaster I thought it would be.

Chapter 11 - Yulia

I’ve never seen this many dresses in one place outside of a magazine.

Silks, satins, velvets, beadwork so delicate I’m afraid to breathe on it. There’s a team of two stylists and a personal shopper in one of Trifon’s bedroom suites, unloading box after box as though I’m some kind of heiress prepping for a royal ball. One holds up a Dior gown in midnight blue, another fans out a selection of earrings that sparkle like starlight.

“This one would look divine on you,” the older woman says, as if this is normal.

I nod mutely, unsure what to say. I never lacked anything growing up. My family made sure of that. But we weren’t flashy. We didn’t splurge. Birthdays meant cake and books, and the occasional special gift, like a new cellphone, not Cartier.

“Try this next,” one of them says, handing me something silver and clingy and terrifying.

I blink, but before I can gather the courage to say I need a minute, there’s a knock on the door.

I’m half-expecting Trifon to storm in and force me into one of these ridiculous gowns himself when the door bursts open and Nadya pokes her head in. Her face is still bruised from the accident, but her eyes sparkle with mischief.

“Holy shit, look at all this!” she exclaims, limping inside without waiting for an invitation.

A taller woman follows—same midnight-dark hair as Trifon, but softer features and a quiet grace that makes Nadya look like a firecracker in comparison.

“You must be Yulia,” she says warmly, stepping forward. “I’m Darya. The other sister.”

“Oh!” I blink. “I didn’t realize he had two.”

“Four brothers, two sisters,” Nadya chimes in, already rummaging through a rack of dresses. “Trifon’s the oldest, then Valentin, Leonid, Iosif, Miron, then us.” She holds up a black dress with a thigh-high slit. “You’d look hot in this.”

“Nadya,” Darya says, half-amused, half-scolding. “You can’t just hijack her fitting.”

“It’s okay,” I cut in quickly. “Honestly, I could use the help. I’m a little... out of my depth.”

Understatement of the year.

“Well, you came to the right girls,” Nadya grins, tossing her hair. “Darya’s the chic one. I’m just the mouthy one.”

“She’s being modest,” Darya says, smiling fondly. “Nadya’s got great taste—she just applies it recklessly.”

I glance at Nadya’s bruises. “Yeah, I picked up on that.”

To my surprise, they both laugh. Not polite society chuckles. Real, full-bodied laughter.

“I like her,” Nadya says, grinning at her sister. “She’s got bite.”

“Much better than the last one,” Darya says, stepping back to appraise another dress.

I watch her. “The last one?”

“The last girlfriend,” Nadya explains breezily, flipping through another rack. “Some blonde nightmare who laughed quite annoyingly at everything Trifon said, like he was the next coming of Kevin Hart. Lasted three weeks.”