39
Bella
My hands won’t stop fucking shaking.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, like that’s going to help with the earthquake happening inside my chest. The tires of the Aston hug the curves of the winding coastal road, and I can’t decide if I’m driving too fast or not fast enough.
“Breathe,” I mutter to myself. “Just breathe.”
The evening sky doesn’t help. It’s too goddamn beautiful. A watercolor blur of rose gold and bruised lavender stretches across the horizon, melting into the waves below. Sunlight dances off the cliffside like the world’s trying to show off.
Then the mansion comes into view—perched just far enough from the edge to be both dramatic and smug. The entire estate is lit up like some kind of coastal fantasy: golden lights glowing behind glass walls, warm lanterns flickering along the pathways, the infinity pool catching the sky’s last light like liquid crystal.
Okay. Now it’s looking less like a home and more like I’m driving straight into a luxury property ad titled:“Welcome to Your New Life: Scenic Views, Designer Furniture, and the Ex-Wife Who Might Want You Dead.”
The gate yawns open, quiet and seamless, like the house is expecting me. Like I’m part of its routine now.
It should feel normal by this point—pulling into this estate like I live here, like I’m not on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.
But my fingers stay clenched on the wheel, locked and aching. Every breath feels like a negotiation.
Irina called—and she wants to meet. The woman who left a crater in this family, and now thinks I won’t tell anyone she called me like we’re in some spy movie?
One of the guards standing by the gate gives me a curt nod, and the garage door begins to rise, smooth and mechanical, swallowing the tension with it.
I pull into the circular driveway, parking next to one of Konstantin’s ridiculous cars—the matte black Lamborghini today. I sit for a moment, engine off, staring at the mansion like it’s suddenly become alien territory.
What the fuck am I going to do?
Maybe I should tell him. Maybe Konstantin would—
No.
I won’t let Julian and Lila become collateral damage in a war between Russian psychopaths.
Would Konstantin even care if they were?
My phone buzzes. I check it—nothing from Irina, just a text from Elena:
Still alive?
I respond with a thumbs-up emoji because words are too hard right now.
“Mrs. Belov.”
“Jesus!” I jump, hand flying to my chest. My purse tumbles from my lap, spilling lip gloss and receipts across the driver’s seat.
Oleg stands at my car door, expressionless as a statue. He must have opened it while I was spiraling into my personal panic vortex.
“Sorry,” I mutter, gathering my scattered belongings. “I didn’t see you there, Oleg.”
He waits, one hand extended to help me out, as if I didn’t just have a mini heart attack.
“Breathing’s optional in this job, I guess?” I say, accepting his hand.
His mouth twitches—almost a smile, but not quite. “The children are waiting for you inside.”
“Right. The kids.” I take a step toward the house, then pause. “Is he back?” The question slips out, betraying the careful nonchalance I’m trying to maintain.
