If this is a warning, I’m already in trouble.
If it’s a promise, I’ll take two.
And if it’s a declaration? God help me, I might be okay with that, too.
By the time he pulls back, I’m officiallyruined. I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Also, my knees? Yeah, they’re filing for divorce from my spine because they aredoneholding me up.
And just like that, it’s over.
The room erupts in polite applause, but all I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears—and maybe the sound of my dignity quietly packing its bags and leaving town.
I glance down at the ring glittering on my finger like it’s laughing at me.
I’m his.
I’mMrs. Konstantin Belovnow.
Signed. Sealed. Delivered—to the Russian mob.
1
Bella
Two weeks ago
My phone buzzes just as I hitsendon the final offer.
Bam. I’m the queen of real estate. Long live the queen.
That’s it.
I’ve officially flipped another house, and if there were a trophy for “Best in Show” in real estate, it would be mine. I smirk, sinking back into my chair, phone still buzzing like it knows this is a victory call.
I glance at the screen. Of course, it’sElena.
“Guess who just made another deal?” I say, not even waiting for a greeting.
“Let me guess,” she starts. “It’s the person who just stole the joy from every other agent in Big Sur? Congrats, babe.”
“What can I say? I’m a menace in what I do. What are you doing right now?”
“Oh, you know, just googling ‘how to be half as good asIsabella Marquez’while I sip this overpriced green juice. But more importantly—guess what gurl?”
“You found a new victim for your dating app obsession?”
“No. But good guess. I’ve planned your 29th birthday celebration.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I nearly forgot my birthday is this Friday.AlsoValentine’s Day.Ugh.Could there be a worse combination?
Birthday?Fine.But on the same day as this overly romantic, commercialized nightmare? It’s like being forced to share a day with couples flaunting their happiness and hearts everywhere.I hate it.
Absentmindedly, I twirl the pen in my hand, then lower it to the notepad in front of me. The tip drags across the page, and before I know it, I’m scribbling out a lopsided drawing of… a poo emoji.
How fitting.
“Oh? And what’s the plan? Wine, tapas, maybe a little beachside dancing?”
Elena snickers. “Nope.Even better. We’re going toThe Crimson Room.”
