Page 73 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride

Slowly, I unfold it. Once. Twice.

Until her neat handwriting fills my vision. My heart churns as I start reading.

Dearest Emmanuil,

I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. There are a thousand things I want to say to you, but I doubt any of them will make a difference. There is only one thing that matters, one thing that might change the course of your thoughts and hopefully where your anger is directed.

It was never my brother.

Kristopher was not the one who stopped me from seeing you five years ago.

It was my father, Faiz Ilyin.

I am sorry we could not rewrite the past.

Anya

My fingers can’t seem to hold onto the page anymore.

It falls from my hands, flittering down, catching and gliding, and lands on the floor some way away from me.

My eyes are staring at nothing. Numb, cold pain is throbbing in my chest.

I am sorry we could not rewrite the past.

Chapter 22 - Anya

It’s still dark when I leave the mansion.

The sun is only just starting to touch the horizon with its pale gray light. One side of the sky is still sleeping, the other only stirring awake now.

My heart is heavier than it’s been in a very long time. Last night was too real. Too beautiful. Too intimate.

How can he be with me like that, with such an intense connection, but be faking it? The damage I did to him all those years ago made him so numb that he became a monster of sorts.

But he’s a monster that I created by breaking his heart.

A soft sigh escapes my lips as I quietly close the door behind myself and walk away from his home. Untangling myself from his embrace this morning was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

My footsteps are silent, my sneakers not making a sound on the pathway towards the gate where my Uber is waiting, my bag heavy over my shoulder, but I lean to the side to try and even out the weight of it.

Before I step off his property, I turn to look at the mansion one last time.

I have to let this place go once and for all.

I have to let him go.

Last night wasn’t a declaration of love, no matter how much I want to dream it was—it was a cathartic form of closure for both of us.

Or for him, it was another way to try and fool me into believing he cared.

And now I have to move on.

The Uber driver climbs out and takes my bag from me, opening my door. I slide silently into the backseat, fighting tears. I can still smell him on my skin. I didn’t want to risk showering and waking him up. His cologne is in my hair, his scent in my pores.

I pull my phone out to send Georgie the link to track my Uber ride.

She already knows I’m on the way. I messaged her first thing when I woke up. The truth is, I hardly slept at all. Maybe an hour to two before I was awake, and my head was spinning with the morbid knowledge of what I had to do.Leave.