To My Gentle Dictator – Chapter 029

Contrary to Sasha’s expectation that everything would have changed completely, the interior of the Grand Palace seemed largely untouched.

Especially the reception room where she now sat—it was almost exactly as it had been back when she and Leonid used to play hide-and-seek while waiting to meet their father. Nothing had changed: the columns inlaid with lapis lazuli, the smooth domed ceiling, the chandelier that glowed like a ring of burning gold, the plush carpets. Even the mahogany table where Leonid had once carved his initials into one of the legs—only the tablecloth was different; everything else remained the same.

From the heated samovar rose the sweet scent of black tea.

Sasha sat with proper posture, dressed in an ivory two-piece ensemble she had carefully chosen over the course of nearly two hours.

“You’ve grown.”

Kryuchkov, who had been staring at her with an unreadable gaze, murmured in a flat tone.

The eyes beneath his oily lids reminded her of a snake coiled and watching.

He was the spitting image of Vasily—anyone could tell they were father and son at a glance. Yet, if she had to compare them, this man exuded an even more ruthless air.

Sasha, hiding her clammy palms beneath the table, forced a gentle smile.

“Thank you.”

Though she had no idea what she was thanking him for. Perhaps for sparing her life, so that she could live and grow for the past three years?

To say she wasn’t terrified would be a lie.

As the supreme leader of the current regime and Vasily’s father, Kryuchkov was someone Sasha couldn’t help but fear.

His consent to her marriage with Ulrich—and his offer to walk her down the aisle—was no doubt a calculated move for state propaganda.

What he truly thought of Sasha, personally, remained a complete mystery.

‘If I mess up now, it really is the end.’

Sasha couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing Ulrich again.

She couldn’t squander the opportunities he’d given her because of her own foolishness, nor could she drag Kiril back into the mire.

Even after steeling herself, she agonized over one thing:

What kind of person should she appear to be in Kryuchkov’s eyes?

‘Not that it matters anyway…’

Even if Sasha had been the key whistleblower who triggered the military coup, no one believed she did it for ideology or some grand ideal.

Most people assumed the foolish princess had simply fallen for Ulrich’s handsome face and spilled everything.

And that… wasn’t wrong.

Knowing how she was perceived, Sasha figured it might be better to show herself just as she was, rather than feign loyalty or patriotism.

A woman raised in luxurious captivity, unable to adapt to the turbulent times, swept away by the tides and barely surviving by submitting to the new regime—a woman whose only notable trait was being attracted to a handsome man.

‘That’s who I am.’

“The tea has a lovely aroma. Relax and have a cup. After all, you were once my future daughter-in-law, were you not?”

Kryuchkov, speaking in a seemingly generous tone, raised his hand as if to lift his teacup.

It was as if he had forgotten—or chose to ignore—how their relationship as future in-laws had come to a ruinous end.

Of course, it hadn’t begun pleasantly either.

Under pressure from the Assembly at the time, the imperial family had agreed to marry a princess into a non-noble family, and they had made little effort to hide their disdain for the match. People had mocked the situation relentlessly, calling Kryuchkov a mafia boss masquerading as a businessman who had bought himself a princess.

Perhaps he was now bringing it up just to taunt her.

Sasha lowered her eyes and, wearing a look of guilt, softly began to speak.

“I’m sorry. Actually, about my brother… I’ve felt so ashamed to face you because of what happened…”

“Boys grow up through rough patches. That matter’s irrelevant; no need to bring it up again.”

Kryuchkov’s stern voice was laced with annoyance. It wasn’t just that he didn’t care—he clearly didn’t want to hear about it at all.

Considering how Vasily had reacted to Kiril’s assault, Kryuchkov’s dismissiveness was unexpected.

‘The Supreme Commander isn’t the type to fuss over his youngest son getting roughed up in a scuffle with other boys.’

It seemed Ulrich had been telling the truth when he’d said that.

Still, to treat the incident—an unprovoked assault on his son—as something so trivial right in front of the attacker’s family? That was astonishing.

As Sasha silently processed her surprise, she wondered if Kryuchkov was testing her reaction, gauging her posture and demeanor.

“Thank you so much, sir. For forgiving my brother… and above all, for granting your permission for my marriage.”

“You were always afraid of Basha, even as a child. But never of me.”

Kryuchkov blew gently on the steaming tea before him, then spoke in a tone that seemed to come from nowhere.

“I arranged your engagement to Basha, and placed Mila at your side as a lady-in-waiting, but both of them used to grumble constantly about how the princess never opened her heart.”

Basha—Vasily’s nickname. Mila—Lyudmila’s.

Was he now trying to blame her for those days?

Did the Proverka family intend to air all the humiliation they felt at the hands of the imperial family?

Sasha tried to stay composed as she studied his expression.

“Back then, I…”

“Not sure if you remember. It was around the time the snow was melting. You approached me when I came to see your father and handed me a box of sweets. Told me it was from your birthday, and asked if I’d share it with you… Strange feeling, that. My own daughter never offered me anything like that.”

Kryuchkov’s eyes crinkled slightly with a cryptic smile.

Sasha quietly watched him.

It was a vague, ambiguous story. Perhaps someone else might have taken it differently. But to Sasha, it didn’t feel like Kryuchkov had found any meaning in that memory, or that she had left any special impression on him. Rather…
It simply sounded like a story meant to highlight himself.

The atmosphere of the imperial court at the time. The tension between haughty blue-bloods and the rising powers. And among them, a young princess who, despite the distance, made a rare approach—toward him.

In truth, Sasha could barely even remember the event.

If she had done something that odd and impulsive back then, it must have been because she was trying to avoid someone.

Most likely, she’d been trying to dodge a session with the new palace physician.

“You’ve always been kind to me, sir,” Sasha said humbly, her eyes fixed on the teacup that was identical to the ones her father used to drink from.
“Even though I surely wasn’t someone you had much regard for. And now, you’re showing me such generosity again—it’s more than I deserve.”

Kryuchkov stared at her with that same unreadable gaze, then slurped his tea noisily.

“What good does it do to dwell on the past?”

For just a moment, a strange shadow seemed to flicker in the corner of his cold green eyes.

“Basha still acts like Yura somehow stole you away from him using some underhanded trick, but… if you lost, it’s because you weren’t worthy.”

It was impossible to tell if he meant it or not. Sasha was momentarily speechless.

Just then, the Director of the NSS entered the reception room.

“Supreme Commander. Shura. I’m a bit late, it seems.”

His perfectly tailored uniform was crisp as a blade, yet his soft voice seemed to lift the weight in the air like a change in melody. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows, circled the chandelier, and settled like a halo on his platinum hair.

At the familiar sight of the handsome man, both Kryuchkov and Sasha visibly brightened.

“Oh, Yury. I was just about getting used to your habit of being late.”

“Apologies. You’ve assigned me quite a lot of tasks.”

“If you’re late to the wedding, neither I nor your bride will be so forgiving.”

“That’s honestly frightening. By the way, you haven’t gone and scared my bride already, have you?”