Page 85 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

“She seems to know you well,” I murmur to Trifon as Mikhail busies himself with glasses.

Trifon’s expression softens. “I’ve known them since I was twelve,” he says. “They worked as domestic staff at our first house in Boston. Immigrants, like my parents. But they had it harder.”

Before he can elaborate, Irina returns with a large pot of beef stew, and it’s already making my mouth water. Mikhail follows with a basket of dark bread and a bowl of Olivier salad.

“Eat, eat,” Irina commands, serving generous portions onto our plates. “Both of you are too skinny.”

I can’t help but laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called Trifon skinny before.”

“He was, when I met him,” she says, sitting down across from us. “All bones and angry eyes.”

Trifon looks slightly embarrassed, which is a sight I never thought I’d see. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“Worse,” Mikhail chuckles. “Always scowling, this one. But a good heart. Very good heart.”

I watch in fascination as Trifon ducks his head slightly, accepting the praise with uncharacteristic humility. It’s like I’m seeing a completely different person.

The food is incredible—hearty, flavorful, and exactly what my pregnancy-sensitive stomach has been craving. I dig in with enthusiasm, suddenly realizing how hungry I am.

“So,” Irina says, watching us eat with obvious satisfaction. “When is the baby due?”

“February.” I smile. “Or so we think.”

Irina nods approvingly. “Good month for babies. Strong.”

I notice Trifon is already halfway through his plate, eating with a frenzy I’ve never seen in him before. He usually maintains impeccable table manners, each movement deliberate and controlled. But here, in this small, warm kitchen, he eats like a man starved.

“Slow down,” I laugh, nudging his elbow. “The food isn’t going anywhere.”

He looks up, a rare sheepish expression crossing his face. “Irina’s cooking does that to me.”

“He was always like this,” Mikhail says fondly. “A growing boy needs food.”

“I’m a grown man now,” Trifon points out, but he’s smiling.

“We’re eating for two, remember?” he adds, with a sidelong glance at me.

I cock an eyebrow at him. “Pretty sure I’m the only one here who’s eating for two.”

“Sympathy hunger,” he replies without missing a beat. “It’s a documented condition.”

The easy banter feels so normal, so...domestic. And with it comes a realization: Trifon brought me here to show me something—a piece of himself that he doesn’t share with the world. The man behind the Pakhan.

As if reading my thoughts, Irina says, “Trifon used to mow our lawn, you know. For free.”

“Really?” I glance at him, trying to picture a young Trifon pushing a lawnmower.

“I had time,” he says dismissively.

“He had time because he made time,” Mikhail corrects. “We could not afford a gardener. Too proud to ask for help. But he saw. Just showed up one day with his father’s mower.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Trifon mutters, looking uncomfortable with the praise.

“It was to us,” Irina says firmly. “And then, when Yuri hurt his back and could not work for months, who brought groceries? Who fixed our roof when it leaked?”

“You paid me back with food,” Trifon reminds her. “More than fair trade.”

“And now our son has a good job because of you,” Mikhail adds, his voice thick with emotion. “Good life.”