Page 5 of The Pakhan’s Hidden Heir

I close the box and fold the flaps under each other so it stays shut without tape. “The movers come tomorrow. I’ll leave the key under the mat.” I sling the duffel over my shoulder, and she slowly stands up, frowning still.

“Call me every day,” she says. “I mean it.”

I lean down and kiss her cheek. “I’ll be fine.”

She catches my wrist before I can turn away. “Please…”

“Goodbye, Lada.”

With a box in my arms and the bag on my shoulder, I walk out the door under the slate-grey sky.

The car Bastian sent for me is waiting at the curb. I glance back at my door and suck in a deep breath, resolving to stay confident about this choice no matter what.

I know Lada is worried because she cares, but I have to do this.

Which is what I tell myself the entire drive across town, out of the run-down neighborhoods, through the city center to the wealthier parts of town with gated homes and security fencing.

When we pull up and stop at a pillar where the driver types in a code, I shudder.

The house isn’t a house. It’s a compound behind a wall, and there are men at the gate who walk the length of the car before they wave us through, sweeping mirrored poles under the bumpers.

Then they flag us through and the driver pulls the car up to the front doors that are tall enough and wide enough we could drive through them.

My eyes float upward, toward the windows going up three stories, and the lights on in almost all of them.

This man isn’t just wealthy; he’s a god. This home is a display of power as much as it is a beacon of wealth.

When my hand wraps around the door handle, my arm is pulled outward.

The driver finishes opening the door for me, gesturing toward the house.

“I’ll take your bags. Akim will see you in.” The driver speaks in monotone as I slide off the seat and onto the paved walkway.

He points toward a man standing on the front step holding the door to the home open.

It’s the same man who was in the interview yesterday where Mr. Dravenko agreed to accept me as his heir’s mother.

He wears the same dirty, disgusted expression now that he had then.

“Thank you,” I mumble, smoothing the wrinkles out of my threadbare coat then shuffling toward the steps.

Neither of them says another word as one leads me into the house and the other follows. It’s dark; the walls are lined with paintings and sconces where candles flicker, offering dim light.

As we navigate a maze of hallways I’m sure I’ll never map out for myself without help, my palms start to sweat. My mind starts to race.

Why am I doing this?

Why did I ever think that this was a good idea?

Am I really so bold as to think I can sleep with a total stranger for money and not be affected by this?

I almost turn around and run, but Akim opens a door and grumbles, “He’s in here,” then stands back so I can pass by.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I pass him, tiptoeing into what looks to be a library or study.

Shelves line the walls, stacked deep with books and knickknacks.

Bastian Dravenko stands by a fireplace with a glass in his hand watching me enter. When the door shuts behind me, my heart drops.