Not the silk nightwear I’ve seen hanging in her closet, purchased by my staff.
Her taste is too American. Loud. And fucking hideous.
I should find it ridiculous. Childish.
But somehow, she’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
And I can’t stop staring at her.
Hair a mess. Legs bare. One shoulder peeking out. Her mouth parted just enough to make my chest tighten in a way I don’t have the language for. I don’t know how she ended up like this—she probably meant to leave once Alya drifted off—but she didn’t.
She stayed.
The book’s still open on the floor.Guess How Much I Love You.Of course Alya picked that one. Stuffed animals are lined up like she negotiated a truce between them before lights-out. The whole room smells like that lavender spray the maids use before bedtime, with a little trace of Bella—warm cotton, something faintly citrus. Her.
They look like they’ve done this a hundred times.
Like this is their routine. Like she belongs here.
And that thought? That feeling? It hits me in a place I don’t know how to armor.
I move closer. Just one step. Enough to see the way Alya’s breathing—steady, deep. She hasn’t slept like this in weeks. Irina never gave her this. Never stayed. Never read to her. Never showed up for any of it.
And Bella? She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t ask. She just did it.
My father’s words resurface:“Love is useless and a fucking leash wrapped around your neck.”
This isn’t love,I tell myself. This is… appreciation. Gratitude that Alya finally sleeps through the night. Practical recognition that Bella handles the children well. Strategic satisfaction that my business arrangement is functioning as intended.
That’s all.
Except it’s not.
Because the second I let myself imagine Bella not being here tomorrow, not being in this house, not being nearmychildren—something dark starts to coil in my chest.
She’s here because of a contract. She can leave. And she will.
And that shouldn’t matter. But somehow—it does.
Suddenly, I want her to stay. Not just for the kids. Not just to finish the year. I want herin this house. In this life.Mine.
I exhale through my nose. Quiet. Rough.
I reach forward and gently push a strand of hair off her face. Just that. No contact. No noise.
She shifts slightly under my touch. Her lips move—something half-formed, a sound that never leaves her throat. Alya stirs but doesn’t wake.
I let my hand fall away.Back off.
And for a moment, I just stand there.
This… this scares me more than war ever could.
Because if I let her matter—if I let her in—and she walks out?
There won’t be a clean way to undo what that’ll do to me.
She looks peaceful, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the slight furrow between her brows even in sleep, the protective way her body curls toward my daughter.
