“Yes!” Alya bounces on her toes. “It’s fight-me pink! Just like I wanted!”
Bella laughs, and the sound is almost convincing. “Fight-me pink it is, then.”
They move toward the register, Alya skipping ahead while Bella follows at a more measured pace. I fall into step beside her, close enough that our shoulders nearly brush. She tenses but doesn’t move away.
“You’re good with her,” I say quietly.
“She makes it easy,” Bella responds, her eyes fixed ahead. “She’s an amazing kid.”
“She trusts you.”
I let that hang between us for a moment. The implication is clear:My daughter trusts you. Do you deserve that trust?
Bella swallows, a quick nervous movement. “I’m trying to be worthy of it.”
“Are you?”
She falters mid-step but recovers quickly. “What does that mean?”
I don’t answer immediately. At the register, Alya is showing the cashier each compartment of her new bag with exuberant detail. The woman smiles indulgently, nodding along to my daughter’s expertise on zipper functionality.
“It means,” I finally say, “that trust works both ways.”
Bella’s breath catches—so subtly that only someone watching for it would notice. “I know that.”
“Do you?”
Before she can respond, we reach the counter. Alya is bouncing on her toes, pointing at the sparkly keychains displayed next to the register.
“Can I have one, please? It matches perfectly!”
“Of course,” Bella says without hesitation, reaching for her purse—the one she’s been clutching like a lifeline all morning.
I slide my card across the counter before her fingers can even touch her wallet. The cashier takes it without looking at Bella, recognizing the hierarchy of power without being told.
“Thank you, Mr. Belov,” she says, swiping the black card with practiced efficiency.
Bella’s hand hovers midair for a moment before retreating. She looks up at me, and something complicated passes across her face—fear and confusion.
She presses her lips together and turns quickly, shifting her focus to Alya like it’s the only thing keeping her steady.
I watch her help Alya attach the sparkly flamingo keychain to her new bag, their heads bent together, dark and light, both equally precious to me now for entirely different reasons. Bella’s hands shake slightly, but her voice is steady as she shows Alya how to work the clasp.
She’s trying to hide it, but I see the weight she’s carrying—Irina’s call, the one Timur traced to a burner phone.
The message from Timur I read in the SUV before we left the school:
Irina made the call to Bella. Confirmed.
And Davis Collins spotted near Julian and Lila’s school. Not a coincidence. My jaw tightens at the memory. Collins, that slimy opportunist, sniffing around Bella’s siblings like a vulture. Irina’s pulling strings, and Bella’s caught in the web, keeping it from me. I wait, giving her the rope to hang herself or the chance to come clean.
She’s stubborn, my Isabella—used to fighting alone, trusting no one. But she’ll learn.
I could end this now. Ask her outright. Make her say it.
But that’s not how this goes. Not with her. Not yet.
She’s still choosing what kind of game this is. Still deciding whether I’m the enemy or the one who keeps the wolves from the door.
