And me?I’m standing here in a blazer that suddenly feels like a clearance rack special.
I square my shoulders and head to the reception desk. The woman behind it is immaculate—ice-blonde hair twisted into a bun, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, a headset perched perfectly over one ear. She looks at me the way one might assess an unexpected stain on a silk dress.
“Can I help you?” Her tone is so polished that I can practically see my own reflection in it.
“Isabella Marquez. I have a meeting with Konstantin Belov.”
Her fingers hover over the keyboard, nails tapping like a coded message. She flicks her gaze over me again, from my red lipstick to my practical heels, and then types something with the kind of practiced disinterest that suggests I am very much not the usual clientele.
“Take the elevator to the top floor.” She nods toward a sleek bank of elevators to my left. “You’ll be directed from there.”
I murmur thanks and step toward the elevators, exhaling slowly. One hurdle down.
The ride up is silent, save for the soft whir of the ascent. My reflection stares back at me in the mirrored walls, the contract practically burning a hole in my purse. I steel myself, repeating the points I need to make.Lila. Julian. The house.The terms. No loopholes.
The elevator dings.
The top floor is even more intimidating than the lobby.
Here, everything is muted elegance—dark wood, soft lighting, and walls lined with abstract paintings that are clearly originals. A massive window stretches across one side, offering a sweeping view of the city, like the universe itself is bowing to whoever owns this space.
A second receptionist—this one in a fitted black dress that looks personally tailored—barely glances up from her desk before gesturing to a seating area.
“Mr. Belov will see you shortly. Please have a seat.”
I nod, pressing my lips together as I lower myself onto one of the impossibly plush chairs. The leather is buttery soft, the kind you sink into, but I refuse to let it drown me.
I sit upright, back stiff, purse in my lap, contract inside.
And then I wait.
My gaze flicks around the office, taking in the high-end penthouse setup. It’s more than just an office—it’s a statement. Shelves lined with sleek black binders and gold-lettered files, a massive glass case displaying luxury development models, and framed photos of towering skyscrapers he owns.
People move through the space like they belong in a world where money isn’t just power—it’s air. Men and women dressed to kill, stilettos clicking against the floor, expensive suits fitted within an inch of perfection. It’s barely past eight in the morning, and they already look like they’ve conquered something.
Then I see him.
Through a large glass panel to my left, a massive desk sits in the center of a room that looks more like a command station than an office. And behind it—
Konstantin Belov.
My heart stutters like a goddamn idiot.
How? How is it possible that every time I see this man, he looks a little more devastating? Like his face is going through some slow, insidious upgrade into an even more lethal version of himself?
He’s speaking to someone, his body half-turned, one hand resting against the desk, the other casually adjusting the lapelof his jacket. The power in that one small movement is obscene. Like he’s not just adjusting fabric but recalibrating reality itself.
And then it hits me.
I am here to meet my future husband.
The man I’ll be married to.
The man I will have sex with.
Oh.
My brain short-circuits. My imagination betrays me in real-time. That desk—that ridiculously large, ridiculously expensive desk—would he? Would he throw me onto it, pin me down, and—
