Page 80 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
The thought still hits me like a bullet—sudden, sharp, and lodged somewhere I can’t remove. It doesn’t hurt, but it changes everything just like a bullet does.
The Fyodorovs will be here any minute, and for once in my life, I’m not strategizing how to use this information as leverage. This isn’t about business. This is about making things right with Yulia.
She’s upstairs resting now, catching up on her sleep. After what the doctor said last week, I try to make sure she’s not bothered by a thing. She needs to focus on herself and the baby.
I try to control the tension slowly building in my shoulders. I’ve faced down dangerous men before, but my stomach knots at the thought of this meeting.
Not from fear. From guilt.
Using Yulia at the gala to blindside her father had been a calculated move. The perfect move in the game I’ve been playing for decades.
But the look on her face when she realized what I’d done? Never again.
I hear them before I see them, and immediately sit straighter on my chair. Then comes the knock.
“Come in,” I say, standing as I do.
The door opens wider, and they file in—Akim first, as befits his position, followed by his three sons: Damien, Arman, and Ilya.
A thought crosses my mind when I see them. My child will be their blood. I search their faces for a deeper resemblance to Yulia, but all I see is the Russian frost. Yulia’s warmth, her spark—it’s absent in these men who share her blood.
“Yuri.” Akim nods at me.
“Fyodorov,” I return. “Thank you for coming.”
“You’re brave,” Akim says. “Inviting us here after what you pulled at the gala.”
“I’m not brave,” I say. “I’m done pretending this is a game.”
Damien’s gaze sweeps the room, assessing exits, probably. “Not like we had much choice. Your invitation was... insistent.”
“I wanted to ensure your presence,” I say. “What we need to discuss is important.”
“Where is my daughter?” Akim cuts straight to the point. His silver hair catches the light, making him look distinguished rather than old. A man who has aged without softening.
“Resting,” I reply. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Why? Was she sick?” Arman frowns.
I ignore the question, gesturing to the chairs arranged before my desk. “Please, sit.”
They exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them before they comply. Only when Akim nods do they sit.
I remain standing a moment longer, waiting for them all to get comfortable before they sit.
“I asked you here today because there’s something you need to know,” I begin. “Something that changes the equation between our families.”
“If this is about the marriage, we’ve made our position clear,” Akim says coldly. “It was done without consent, without honor, and we proposed her hand to the—”
“This isn’t about the marriage,” I cut in. “At least, not directly.”
I reach for the sonogram, sliding it across the desk toward Akim. “Yulia is pregnant.”
The silence that follows is absolute. Four pairs of eyes fix on the small, grainy image before lifting to my face.
“That’s impossible,” Ilya says finally, but the certainty in his voice wavers.
“Seven weeks now,” I continue. “We confirmed it when she started bleeding after the gala.” I don’t try to hide the edge that creeps into my voice at the memory of that night. “The stress of that night nearly cost us the child.”
