Page 73 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

“We would’ve preferred to be consulted before this union,” Damien growls.

Trifon raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize I needed permission to marrymywife.”

“You do when it affects business,” Arman snaps. “You know damn well we’ve been in talks with the Zakharovs for an alliance.”

My father steps closer, his voice dropping to ensure only we can hear. “The Zakharovs are offering us protection against the Italians. Territory expansion. A merger that would make us the most powerful family on the coast. And now—” his eyes flick to Trifon, hatred clear in his gaze, “—this complicates everything. They were considering her hand for their son.”

And just like that, the truth shatters through me. They’re not angry because they care about me. They’re angry because I married someone without clearing it with their allies. Because I’ve screwed up a political arrangement. Because I’m property, and I’ve been moved off the board.

I stare at my father. He hasn’t even asked if I’m happy, safe, or how this happened. Not once. In fact, he was willing to pawn me off as a wife to a criminal family, without even telling me the truth about ours.

I stand frozen.

The ballroom spins in gold and candlelight, but I feel ice-cold. Like someone cracked my chest open and left it hollow.

I look up at Trifon, and everything falls into place. He used me. Maybe not cruelly. Maybe even with some twisted version of care. But he used me nonetheless.

And my family?

They never gave a damn.

Chapter 18 - Trifon

I felt the air shift around us the moment I said the wordwife.

Akim Fyodorov looks ready to commit murder in this crowded ballroom. Good, I think to myself. Let him feel what it’s like to lose control of a situation for once.

Yulia’s silent beside me, her hand trembling in mine. But I don’t let go.

“I suggest you rethink your alliances,” I say, quiet steel in my tone. “Your daughter is under my protection now. Which means your family is, too. So long as you don’t give me a reason to change that.”

“Trifon,” Yulia whispers, her voice barely audible. “Don’t.”

I feel her stiffen beside me, hear the small intake of breath. I know I’m being cruel. But this confrontation has been brewing for months. The Fyodorovs need to understand precisely what kind of mistake they’re making by aligning with the Zakharovs.

“Are you threatening us?” Ilya snarls.

“I’m making a recommendation,” I reply. “The Zakharovs have a habit of destroying their allies from the inside out. Ask the Petrovs. Oh wait—” I smile again, sharper this time. “You can’t. They’re all dead.”

Akim’s eyes narrow to slits. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

“Perhaps. But now’s not the time to get into details,” I gesture at the party around us.

Another beat of silence. Tension coils tight enough to snap.

“We’ll talk soon,” Akim says, lips thin, eyes colder than hell freezing over. And just like that, he turns. Walks away. His sons follow.

I guide Yulia away, my hand firm against her back, and she lets me lead. She moves like a sleepwalker, her body rigid under my touch.

I nod goodbyes politely to acquaintances, maintaining the appearance of calm. On the surface, we are just another couple leaving early. But underneath, I can feel her slipping further from me with every step.

“We’re leaving,” I tell Valentin as we pass. “Handle things here.”

She doesn’t acknowledge him. Doesn’t look for my sisters. Doesn’t say a word as I collect her wrap from the coat check and gently settle it over her bare shoulders.

And somehow, that is more painful than if she had screamed.

The car is waiting, as always. I help her inside, slide in beside her, and signal the driver to go. The privacy partition rises, sealing us in silence.