ELENA:I WILL SEND K-POP BOYS TO YOUR DOOR. I’M NOT ABOVE THIS.
ELENA:… Also, how’s the fetus?
I don’t reply.
Because I don’t know.
I clutch my stomach, absurdly expecting to feel something. A sign. A flutter. Anything.
I get a cramp.
Which sends me into a whole new spiral about ectopic pregnancy and miscarriage, and, Jesus, what if I’m already failing at this?
“Mrs. Belov?” Anya’s voice drifts in, followed by a light knock. “Oleg says dinner is almost served, so… no chocolate for now.” She peeks in, tentative.
I blink at her. My brain short-circuits a little, still spinning from the cramp and the fact that Oleg has apparently become the dessert police.
“Okay, that’s… okay,” I manage, then blurt out the only thing that makes any sense in my food-deprived, hormone-fried brain. “Are there any taco stands near here?”
She pauses like I just asked her for the nuclear codes. “Taco… stalls?”
I nod solemnly because what else is there? “Preferably greasy. Questionably inspected. Bonus points if the salsa can melt steel.”
Anya actually considers it. Bless her. She tilts her head slightly and says, “I’m…not sure. But I can ask one of the drivers later, if you’d like.”
I shake my head gently. “Nah. It’s fine. I’ll be out there in a minute.”
She gives me a look—half concerned, half trying not to hover—but she nods.
“Alright. I’ll wait outside.” She disappears again.
I press my back against the headboard and pull the blanket up. It smells like jasmine and the cologne Konstantin left on the pillows last week. I’d rolled my eyes back then. Now I inhale like it’s oxygen.
I don’t know when I made the decision, only that it’s crawling up from my gut and wrapping itself around my spine like armor.
I will not give this baby up.
Mafia or not. Marriage contract or not. Whether Konstantin stays or goes or calls the Bratva HR department to file a complaint about unauthorized pregnancies—
I’m keeping this baby.
I will tell Konstantin.
Not tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. But soon. In person. Face-to-face. No lies. No hiding. He deserves that.
And my baby deserves me at my fiercest.
No one—not even a Belov matriarch with murder eyeliner—is going to take that away.
Even if I have to burn this whole place down.
57
Bella
I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
That’s the only explanation for the tightness in my chest as I pause at the entrance to the garden. My crutches dig into my armpits, but I barely notice the pain—not when he’s sitting there, backlit by hanging lanterns that make his profile look like it’s been cut from granite. He hasn’t seen me yet. He’s leaning forward, one forearm braced on the table as he watches Lev unwrap something. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows. His hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it.
