Page 57 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

“Yes, you do.” I lean in again but stop just short of kissing her. “You know exactly what you want. You’re just afraid to say it.”

She swallows hard. “I want you to stop using sex as a distraction from actual problems.”

The words hit harder than expected. Not because they’re untrue, but because they’re devastatingly accurate.

“You’re right,” I admit, forcing myself to step back despite every instinct screaming to close the distance again. “I am using attraction as a distraction.”

She stares at me, clearly not expecting the concession. “Oh.”

“So we’ll table the argument and the sex.” I move back to my side of the desk, creating actual distance between us. “For now. This conversation isn’t finished, Serena. We’re going to revisit the transparency issue when we’re both calm enough to discuss it rationally.”

“Okay.” She straightens her clothing, though nothing is actually disheveled. “When?”

“Tonight. After dinner.” I pick up the tablet I abandoned, forcing my attention back to work despite the way my body is still thrumming with unfulfilled want. “We’ll establish boundaries around information sharing. Figure out what you need to know versus what creates unnecessary risk.”

“That’s…” She pauses. “That’s actually reasonable.”

“I’m capable of reason.” I glance up at her. “When properly motivated.”

She studies me for a long moment, something softening in her expression. “Thank you.”

Chapter Twenty-One - Serena

The envelope appears on my desk while I’m getting ready for dinner—crisp white paper with no return address, sitting innocuously among the books and papers I’ve accumulated over the past few weeks. I almost miss it entirely, my hand passing over it twice before registering that it wasn’t there this morning.

Someone put it here recently. While I was in the shower, probably, or downstairs in the kitchen with Anya.

My pulse quickens as I pick it up, feeling the weight of something more than just paper inside. The envelope is sealed but not taped, easy to open without leaving evidence.

I should show this to Pavel immediately. Should call for security, report the breach, let him handle whatever threat this represents.

Instead, I close my bedroom door and lock it.

The contents are simple—a single folded document that looks like a financial statement at first glance. Rows of numbers, account details, the kind of boring paperwork that wouldn’t raise suspicion if someone happened to see it.

Between the lines, written in a code I recognize from childhood games with my father, is a message.

Serena, I’m sorry for everything. I made terrible choices that hurt you, sold you to save myself. I failed you as a father in every way that matters. I can’t undo what I’ve done, but I can offer you a way out. There’s information in Pavel’s office: financial records in the third drawer, left side of his desk, red folder. Copy them and meet me at the Grandview Hotel, room 412, Friday at 2pm. I have contacts who can get you safely out of the country, give you a new identity. You deserve better than being trapped in a forced marriage to a criminal. Please trustme one more time.

Dad

I read it three times, my hands trembling slightly as the implications sink in.

My father is offering me escape. Freedom. A way out of this marriage and the dangerous world it’s pulled me into.

The timing is suspicious—weeks of silence after selling me to the Bratva, then suddenly this urgent message offering rescue? It doesn’t make sense unless something has changed, unless he’s found leverage or opportunity he didn’t have before.

Or unless this is a trap.

The thought surfaces with cold clarity. My father has proven he’ll prioritize his own interests over mine. What if this isn’t about rescuing me at all? What if he needs those financial records for his own purposes, and I’m just the convenient tool to retrieve them?

What if it’s genuine? What if he actually regrets what he did and wants to make it right?

I sink onto the edge of the bed, the document clutched in my hand while my mind races through possibilities.

Pavel would never let me go willingly. Even if I asked—even if I told him I wanted out of this marriage despite everything we’ve become to each other—he’d find ways to keep me here. I’m his now, in ways that extend beyond legal documents or strategic alliances.

This could be my only chance at actual freedom. At reclaiming autonomy over my life instead of negotiating for small concessions within Pavel’s control.