“Shit,” I whisper.
“Is that the Russian Dress Nazi?” Elena asks too loudly.
I frantically lower the volume. “Yes, and she wants me to try on dress number three thousand. I’ve seen more tulle in the last two days than a ballet company uses in a decade.”
“Ms. Marquez?” The doorknob jiggles.
“One minute!” I call sweetly, then drop my voice back to a desperate whisper. “Elena, I haven’t even seen him since I signed the contract. A week ago, his lawyer shows up with papers stating all my debts are cleared. My aunt and uncle mysteriously drop their lawsuit over my parents’ house. Julian and Lila get whisked away to academic paradises that cost more per semester than some country’s reserve fund. And me? I getimprisoned in this mansion with Natasha, who I’m pretty sure reports my every move directly to the Kremlin.”
“Bella, honey,” Elena’s voice softens, “you know I support this completely, right? You’ve made the right choice. One year playing wifey to a walking red flag, and everything you’ve ever wanted for your family is yours. It’s the smartest move you could make.”
I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Smart? I’m literally selling myself into a marriage contract with a man who probably has people buried in his backyard.”
“Oh, please,” Elena scoffs. “Everyone in real estate has at least one body in their backyard. Professional hazard.”
“Ms. Marquez!” The knocking is more insistent now.
“Coming!” I yell, then whisper frantically, “I gotta go before she sends in the hounds.”
I hang up and take a deep breath.
The door rattles again.
Less than twenty-four hours.
By this time tomorrow, I won’t just be Bella Marquez anymore.
I’ll be Mrs. Konstantin Belov.
And I still have no idea what the hell I’ve just signed up for.
30
Bella
Natasha stands there, all five feet of Russian determination, her blonde bob—expertly dyed to hide the gray that occasionally shows at her temples—not moving a single millimeter as she tilts her head to glare up at me. The fine lines around her eyes suggest she’s in her fifties, though her impeccable posture and commanding presence make her seem ageless, like she’s been organizing the lives of the Russian elite since before the fall of the Soviet Union.
“Hiding in closets is very childish,” she says, her accent making each word sound like a personal disappointment. The way she looks at me reminds me of a seasoned teacher who has seen generations of students try the same tired excuses.
“I wasn’t hiding,” I lie. “I was… admiring the craftsmanship of the closet hinges.”
Her eyes narrow. “Mr. Belov spares no expense. Even closet hinges are custom-made by Italian artisans.”
Of course they are.
“The Elie Saab,” she says, gesturing imperiously toward the bedroom where yet another white monstrosity awaits. “And Mr. Belov’s mother has sent specific instructions about the veil length.”
“Mr. Belov’s mother?” I repeat, trying to imagine the woman who raised a man like Konstantin. A faceless figure materializes in my mind—someone elegant but cold, imperious but refined. Someone who commands respect with a whisper rather than a shout.
“Yes, Mrs. Yelena Belov,” Natasha says, a reverence in her voice I haven’t heard before. “Most elegant woman. Very traditional.”
I try to process this new piece of information. Konstantin hasn’t mentioned his mother. He hasn’t mentioned anything about his family at all. Everything I know, I had to read between the lines of articles, careful not to lose myself in the silences. His world is still a mystery to me, a book written in a language I can’t read.
“What is she like?” I ask, genuine curiosity breaking through my anxiety.
Natasha doesn’t answer. Instead, she moves quickly, reaching for the zipper of my dress with practiced efficiency.
“We try next one,” she announces, already tugging the fabric down my arms.
