Page 24 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

He’s already fulfilling his end of the bargain. Already using his position to serve the organization that forced this marriage. The alliance is working exactly as Pavel planned.

I close the article and toss my phone onto the side table, pressing my palms against my eyes.

The house grows quieter as evening settles in. I hear footsteps in the hallway occasionally—guards on rotation, staff finishing evening duties. No one knocks on my door. No one comes to demand I follow the dinner schedule.

Maybe they don’t actually care. Maybe this is one small freedom I can claim without consequence.

Nearly an hour passes before the knock finally comes softly, completely different from Pavel’s authoritative presence.

“Come in,” I call, not moving from my chair.

Maria enters carrying a covered tray, her expression apologetic. “Mrs. Rudenko, I brought dinner. Mr. Rudenkonoticed you didn’t come down and asked that the kitchen prepare something.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say, keeping my tone polite but firm. “But thank you.”

Maria hesitates, clearly caught between my refusal and whatever instructions she was given. “He was quite specific that I should bring this to you. If you’d prefer to eat later, I can leave it?”

The phrasing makes it clear that refusing entirely isn’t really an option. Pavel’s orders override my preferences, as always.

“Fine. Leave it.” I gesture toward the small table near the window.

She sets down the tray with practiced care, removing the cover to reveal the contents. I glance over reflexively, expecting the same standard dinner that’s been served all week—something professionally prepared and completely impersonal.

Instead, I find myself staring at dishes I actually recognize.

Grilled salmon with lemon butter. Roasted asparagus with garlic. A small arugula salad with pomegranate seeds and goat cheese. Fresh bread that’s still warm, probably from the kitchen’s evening bake.

Every single item is something I love, but have never mentioned in front of Pavel.

“Will there be anything else, Mrs. Rudenko?” Maria asks quietly.

I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

She leaves with a small nod, closing the door softly behind her.

This is manipulation,I remind myself firmly. Another way of exerting control, showing that he pays attention to details, that nothing happens in his house without his knowledge. It’s not kindness. It’s surveillance dressed up as courtesy.

Even as I think it, I’m pulling the table closer and picking up the fork.

The salmon is perfectly cooked, the asparagus seasoned with just enough salt. Everything tastes better than it should, and I resent every bite for being exactly what I would have chosen if given the option.

I eat slowly, alone in my room while the house continues its quiet evening routine around me. Through the window, I can see guards patrolling the grounds, security lights creating pools of illumination across the manicured lawn. Somewhere in this house, Pavel is probably in his office, working through whatever business requires his attention tonight.

Does he even think about the dinner he ordered? Or was it such an automatic decision that he’s already moved on to more important matters?

I finish the meal and set down my fork, studying the empty plates with something uncomfortably close to confusion.

This is the same man who interrogated someone in the basement last night with cold, controlled precision. The same man who forced me into marriage and holds me captive under the guise of protection. The same man who touched me yesterday with calculated intent to prove a point about power and control.

He’s also apparently the man who notices when I skip dinner and ensures I’m fed anyway, who remembers offhandcomments about food preferences, who runs his household with strict order but doesn’t terrorize the people working under him.

The contradictions are exhausting.

I want him to be simple—purely villain, purely captor, purely the enemy I can hate without complication. Instead, he keeps doing things that force me to see him as something more complex, more difficult to categorize neatly into the mental boxes I’ve constructed.

A knock on the connecting door makes me jump.

“Come in,” I say automatically, then immediately regret it.