What the fuck have I done?
I need to stop the wedding… Somehow. Some way. Before it’s too late.
31
Bella
The SUV pulls away from the curb,leaving me stranded on the sidewalk like some tacky delivery that’s been dropped at the wrong address. Fifteen minutes. That’s all it took to go from finding out I’m marrying into the fuckingRussian mafiato being whisked away to… wherever the hell this is.
I stand frozen, staring up at the sleek glass façade of what’s clearly the kind of restaurant where they don’t list prices on the menu. Because if you have to ask, you definitely can’t afford it.
My reflection stares back at me from the tinted windows—hair slightly disheveled, white blouse wrinkled from where I’d frantically yanked it on, jean shorts that suddenly feel as appropriate as showing up to a funeral in a bikini. I didn’t even have time to grab proper clothes. The moment Natasha handed me something to wear, Tweedledee and Tweedledum (or, as Konstantin probably calls them, “security personnel”) were already waiting to escort me.
The same two mountains of muscle who were watching meat breakfast with Elena last time. Because of course they were.
How did I not notice them then? How did I miss every. Single. Red. Flag?
I’m a realtor, for God’s sake. I’m supposed to notice details.
"This way, Miss Marquez.” The larger of the two men gestures toward the entrance with a hand that could probably crush my skull like an overripe melon.
“You know what? I just remembered I have a dentist appointment,” I say, taking a step back. “Root canal. Very painful. Rain check?”
The man doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at me with the emotional range of a brick wall.
“Mr. Belov is expecting you.”
Of course he is. Probably sitting on a throne made of the bones of people who’ve tried to back out of deals with him.
I glance around, calculating my chances.Run?In these shoes, with these two chasing me? I’d make it about half a block before they’d drag me back, probably by my ankles. Scream? In this neighborhood, people would just assume I’m filming some avant-garde perfume commercial.
I’m trapped. Completely, utterly trapped.
I take a deep breath. One problem at a time, Bella. First, survive dinner. Then figure out how to get out of marrying a fucking mob boss.
The Imperium isn’t the kind of place where people just “grab dinner.”
It’s where billionaires and criminals negotiate power plays over entrées that could finance a small startup.
A place where conversation is currency, traded in low, deliberate tones. Where exclusivity thickens the air, and the walls were designed not just to keep secrets in but to make sure the rest of the world never even suspects they exist.
I don’t belong here.
And yet, the moment I step inside, the head waiter glides toward me, all effortless grace and European indifference, dressed so sharply I’m surprised he hasn’t cut himself. He’s so polished he could double as a human Rolex—sleek, expensive, and completely out of my budget.
He doesn’t ask my name. Of course, he doesn’t. Men like him don’t ask. They just know.
“Right this way, Ms. Marquez,” he says, smoothly sweeping an arm toward the back like I’m royalty.
My name sounds different here. Heavier. More expensive. Like I’m already part of the machinery.
I keep my chin up, my shoulders back. I’ve walked into war zones before—family courtrooms, real estate boardrooms, meetings where men in expensive suits tried to dismantle my future one legal technicality at a time.
But nothing, nothing, prepares me for him.
Konstantin Belov.
Seated at the back, near floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the city skyline, he doesn’t just occupy space—heclaimsit. The candle light cuts across his face, all sharp angles and shadows, turning him into something just shy of myth. His posture is relaxed, but that’s the worst part—he doesn’thaveto posture. He alreadyownsthe room.
