His reaction was simple. “So this is just happening whether we like it or not?”
A statement. Not a question.
“He didn’t argue. He didn’t ask why,” I say.
He just accepted it—because that’s who he is. He sees the world for what it is. Brutal. Unfair. Unforgiving.
Arseny nods, understanding. “The quiet one.”
“He keeps his concerns deep inside. Never shows his emotions.”
“Like someone else I know,” Arseny mutters.
I ignore him.
Arseny turns the SUV toward one of my penthouses that’s closer to the church.
Mychurch. The one my grandfather built, the one my father expanded, the one where three generations of Belov men have been married. Where tomorrow, Isabella Marquez will walk down the aisle and become mine before God and the Bratva.
Arseny shifts, grinning. “And thelittleboss?”
I exhale. “Alya is… concerned.”
His grin widens. “Of course she is.”
My little general.
My daughter, 8 going on unshakeable. She’s got my fight and nothing from the woman who left. When I told her about thewedding, she didn’t cry or pout like I expected. Instead, she looked me dead in the eye and asked, “Does she like animals?”
The question had caught me off guard. “I don’t know.”
Alya’s eyes had narrowed, suspicious. “What if she doesn’t like Mishka?”Mishka, her stuffed bear that goes everywhere with her that she insists is real.
“Then she’ll have to learn to,” I’d said simply.
“Will she read me stories? With the voices?” Her voice had gotten quieter then, more vulnerable.
“I’m sure she can learn to,” I’d answered, not knowing if it was true.
Alya had considered this, her small face serious. “Will she love us?”
That question had hit me harder than I expected. Direct. Without pretense. For a moment, I couldn’t find an answer.
“She’ll take care of you,” I’d finally said.
“For how long?”
“For as long as necessary.”
I hadn’t told the children the marriage was temporary. A one-year arrangement to satisfy my father’s will. They didn’t need to know that. I needed them to respect her, not dismiss her as someone passing through.
But I also couldn’t have them getting attached. Couldn’t have them seeing her as more than what she was—a necessary addition to our lives, not a permanent one.
“You should have seen Alya’s face when I told her,” I say, staring out at the city lights as we approach the penthouse. “She asked if Isabella knows ballet.”
“Does she?” Arseny asks, curious.
“How the fuck would I know?”
