Bella
By the time my butt hits the leather seat, I realize I’ve made a mistake.
I should’ve just said no.
Noto the marriage contract.Noto entertaining the idea for even a second.Noto the way he watches me like he already knows how this ends. And most of all—noto bringing this damn contract with me.
Scratch that.
I’ve basically made aseriesof mistakes. A highlight reel of terrible decisions, all leading to this exact moment—sinking into the kind of car that I’ve only seen in movies, inhaling the scent ofhimembedded into the leather and the air itself. It’s the kind of scent that makes women weak in the knees and ruins lives in expensive hotel rooms. Dark spice, clean wood, something richer underneath. I grip my bag tighter, my fingers practically bruising the contract inside.
“Why the hell am I even going along with this?” I mutter, but the driver—Konstantin’s silent, sunglass-wearing shadow—doesn’t acknowledge me. He just pulls away from the curb, effortlessly maneuvering this beast of a car into the street.
This is what submission looks like, isn’t it? Sitting quietly inhiscar, lettinghisman drive me home without so much as a fight? Since when did I start accepting things like this? I should’ve refused. I should’ve walked out, slammed the door behind me, and taken the bus like a goddamn adult. No means no, right?
Except, apparently, no is a foreign concept when Konstantin Belov is involved. And instead of pushing back, here I am, going along with it.
I cross my arms, pressing myself against the door, determined to make this as awkward as possible. The driver doesn’t seem fazed. In fact, he doesn’t even check the GPS. He justknowswhere I live. Of course he does.
That realization sends another wave of panic slamming into my chest.
I stare at his profile in the rear-view mirror, the sharp angles of his face unreadable behind those mirrored sunglasses. He hasn’t said a word. Not once.
That’s normal, right? Just a totally normal, everyday,not-mafiathing?
Jesus. I need to stop watching crime documentaries.
I pull my bag closer, my nails digging into the leather strap. Inside, the contract feels heavier than paper has any right to be. I should take it out. Read it.Burn it.Instead, I glare out the tinted window, watching familiar streets blur past, my mind spinning with worst-case scenarios.
He didn’t threaten me. Didn’t coerce me. Didn’tforceme into this.
So why does it feel like I’ve been marked? Like, no matter how far I run, he’ll always be two steps ahead?
The car slows, turning onto my street.
And that’s when I see it.
The rage hits first, sharp and fast. A familiar beige sedan parked right outside my house. A second, sleeker car I don’t recognize sitting beside it.
My whole body locks up.
Mike and Peggy.
Of course. Because my day wasn’talreadya goddamn nightmare.
My jaw clenches so tight it’s a miracle my teeth don’t crack. They weren’t supposed to be here. I didn’t get a warning, no smug little “we need to talk” message from my aunt.
And the extra car?
My gut twists.
Lawyer? Realtor? One of their spineless enablers?
Before the car even comes to a full stop, I’m yanking at the door handle, ready to launch myself out and into battle. But the driver—because ofcourse—has control of the locks.
The click of the doors unlocking feels deliberate, like he’s amused.
I whip around, narrowing my eyes. “That was unnecessary.”
