Page 28 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
I stay there for another few seconds, listening to her stubborn silence, then push off the door and walk away.
For two days, I give her space.
I leave food at her door only to find it gone hours later. I bring fresh coffee upstairs, knock on the door to check on her. She tells me to go away. She never opens the door.
I knock a few more times, offering quiet words through the wood. She ignores each one.
I try again the next morning. “Yulia.”
No reply.
Her silence needles under my skin in ways I don’t care to admit. It shouldn’t bother me. Let her throw her tantrum. She’ll come around when she’s ready.
But knowing she’s curled up behind that door, seething, unraveling, alone—it stirs something more desperate than frustration in my chest. I need to handle this before she spirals out of control. By the end of the second day, I’ve had enough. I wait. I watch. She has to leave eventually—human nature always wins.
By day three, I’ve run out of patience. I’ve given her space. Time to process. Now she needs to face reality.
I instruct the staff to stop delivering food to her room. It’s cruel, perhaps, but effective. Hunger is a powerful motivator.
It takes hours before her door finally cracks open. I’m waiting in the shadows of the hallway, lounging against the wall where she can’t see me.
She peeks out, looking both ways before slipping into the corridor. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, her clothes rumpled from sleep. Even exhausted and angry, she’s beautiful. The most alive thing in this house.
I wait until she’s halfway down the hall before stepping out.
“Going somewhere?”
She freezes, her shoulders tensing before she turns to face me. “I’m hungry,” she says defiantly. “Since your staff suddenly stopped bringing food.”
“Convenient,” I say, moving toward her. “I’m just on my way out. You can join me.”
Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “Where are you going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I’d rather starve than spend another minute with you,” she says, and she makes a move to head back to her room, but her stomach betrays her with a growl.
“No, you wouldn’t.” I reach for her arm. “Let’s go.”
She tries to dart past me, but I’m faster. I wrap an arm around her waist and lift her clean off the ground, her back against my chest, her feet kicking air.
“Put me down!” she shouts, struggling against my grip.
“Stop fighting,” I murmur into her ear. “You’re only making this harder on yourself.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she insists, still thrashing as I carry her down the stairs.
“You can fight me all the way to the car, or you can walk on your own. Your choice.”
She stills in my arms, calculating. “Fine. I’ll walk.”
I set her down, but keep a firm grip on her elbow. She glares but doesn’t bolt.
Progress.
“I need to eat something first,” she says as I lead her toward the door.
“You can eat on the plane.”
