Hair tousled. Jaw shadowed.
I twist the tap and let the water run cold. Splash once. Twice. Press my hands flat against the marble sink. The water drips from my chin to my collarbone. My pulse still hasn’t settled.
I look up again.
I look like a man who let his guard down. Like someone who let softness crawl in where it doesn’t belong.
She had every chance to say something. And she didn’t.
Which means she’s keeping secrets.
Which means we’ve got a problem.
Because I don’t do trust. I do control. And if she thinks she can lie to me and still sleep in my bed?
She’s about to learn what it means to keep secrets from the wrong fucking man.
Twenty minutes later, I’m striding down the floating staircase, the estate’s black marble floors gleaming under my boots. I’ve traded last night’s vulnerability for something sharper—tailored black linen trousers, a fitted charcoal Henley that hugs my chest, sleeves pushed to my elbows, and a Patek Philippe watch glinting at my wrist. No suit today. I’m home, but I’m still Konstantin Belov, and this house bends to me, not the other way around. The air smells of coffee and chaos, a faint trace of maple syrup lingering from the kids’ breakfast.
I push through the glass door to the chef’s kitchen, and the scene hits me like a shot of vodka—warm, disarming, and dangerously distracting. The matte black island is a warzone of pancake crumbs and orange juice glasses, the wine wall casting amber flecks across the marble.
Oleg stands by the Sub-Zero fridges, arms crossed, his shaved head catching the morning light as he murmurs something to Yelena, who’s wiping the counter with battlefield precision. Nikolai and Lev are at the island, Lev waving a syrup-sticky spoon like a conductor while Nikolai scribbles in a notebook, muttering about “stupid equations.”
Alya’s perched on a stool, her sparkly pajamas now swapped for a purple dress with a glittery star pattern—her “shopping outfit,” no doubt—dictating a shopping list to Mariya, who’s nodding like she’s negotiating a truce.
And then there’s Bella.
She’s at the far end of the island, leaning over to tie Lev’s sneaker, her hair spilling in dark waves over one shoulder.
Her dress—fuck, that dress—is a soft, emerald-green wrap that clings to her curves, the neckline dipping just enough to make my pulse kick, the hem brushing her thighs like it’s daring me to remember how they felt under my hands last night. The fabriccatches the light, shimmering faintly, and for a second, I’m back in my bed, her moans echoing, her nails digging into my back. She straightens, laughing at something Lev says, and the sound is so unguarded it cracks something in me.
I stop in the doorway, my jaw tightening.
I’m supposed to be pissed. She’s keeping secrets—the call she didn’t mention.
But watching her here, with my kids, in my kitchen, looking like she belongs—it’s fucking with my head. Nikolai glances up, spots me, and nudges Lev, who drops the spoon with a clatter.
“Papa!” Alya spins on her stool, her purple dress flaring. “You’re late! We’re almost ready to go shopping, and you’re still—” She waves a hand at me, like I’m the one holding up the operation.
“Late?” I raise a brow, stepping into the room, my boots silent on the heated marble. “It’s not even eight yet.” I look at my watch and back at my daughter.
Alya grins, unrepentant. “It’s strategic. Like you always say. I need a pink bag to make friends.”
Bella’s eyes flick to me, and for a split second, they hold—dark, searching, remembering.
Her lips part just enough to make my blood heat.
Then she looks away, tucking a curl behind her ear, and the motion is so damn innocent it makes me want to pin her against the island and remind her hownot innocentshe was last night.
“Papa,” Nikolai says, stepping toward me, his backpack already slung over one shoulder. “You and Bella are taking us to school?”
I glance over at Bella. She’s near the fridge, holding Lev’s water bottle like it belongs in her hand, nodding at Oleg as he passes by with a clipboard and a half-smile. The kind of smile I haven’t seen on him since… ever.
“Yes,” I say, keeping my tone even. “We are.”
Nikolai’s eyes light up. “Seriously?”
“Don’t make it weird,” Lev mutters from the counter, but he doesn’t move away when Bella rests a hand briefly on his shoulder. Doesn’t shrug her off like usual. He just keeps eating, like the whole thing is normal. Like he doesn’t need to brace himself for the world outside.
