Because my brain can’t function right now—not with my hands still in the drawer, still patting over the same empty spot like the test might magically reappear if I justwantit hard enough.
I stare at the drawer. Then check the trash. Then the makeup bag. Nothing.
I turn in a slow circle, panic rising like heat under my skin.
And that’s when it hits me.
Someone’s been in here.
And they know that I know.
60
Konstantin
Eleven days. Two hundred and sixty-four hours.
That’s how long it’s been since I haven’t stepped foot near her since the kiss—even though we live on the same damn floor.
Julian and Lila Marquez moved in days ago. I’ve had every reason to go home. To check on them. To show my face like I give a damn.
Instead, I’ve given myself a rotating door of excuses—late meetings, overnight site checks, strategy calls that could’ve been emails. Anything to keep me out of her orbit.
I even moved my gym sessions an hour earlier. Now, I train before sunrise just to make sure I won’t run into her in the hallway.
Doesn’t stop me from glancing at her door every damn morning like some idiot. The door’s always closed. Always silent.
And I tell myself that’s good.
That it’s better this way.
Not because I don’t want to. Because I’m not stupid.
I’ve built an empire on control. Precision. Strategy. I don’t let personal distractions fuck with that.
And yet—
Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Bella, standing under that goddamn streetlamp with salsa on her cheek and fire in her eyes. And then that fucking kiss—
A mistake. A goddamn glitch in the system.
My jaw tightens as I lean back in the leather chair, staring out at the city. From up here, everything looks clean. Manageable. No chaos, no surprises.
Except her.
It’s been over a week. I haven’t seen her. Haven’t touched her. Not since I pulled away like a coward with something to lose. I miss the kids, yeah. But I need this space. I need the distance. The succession is close. Whispers have already started. The vultures are circling. I can’t afford to be distracted by blue eyes and soft fucking sighs.
The intercom clicks.
“Mr. Belov,” Galina’s voice, dry as ever. Efficient to the point of robotic. “I tried. I really did.”
I turn slightly in my chair, already sensing the storm.
“Who?”
The door opens before she answers. Of course.
Tatiana walks in like she still owns the fucking empire. Crimson coat, sharp heels, perfect blowout. All that elegance draped over poison.
