I let out a slow breath, the ache in my jaw easing just a fraction. My head is pounding. Too much tension. Too little sleep. The memory of Bella’s sobs still clings to me like the scent of her perfume—impossible to forget.
Arseny’s gaze meets mine across the table, his scarred eyebrow lifting slightly. “You think she’s after Bella?”
“I think she’s after me,” I say, running a hand along the edge of the blueprint. “But she’ll use whatever leverage she can find.”
Arseny’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. His knuckles whiten as he sets down his unlit cigarette with deliberate care. We’ve been through hell together, but even he seems surprised by the turn of events—by how much things have changed in just a few weeks.
“Double down on security for Bella and the kids,” I say, pushing back from the table. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “Lev and Nikolai think those new watches are just a reward for surviving finals. Alya’s pendant? She won’t take it off because it’s ‘princess-proof.’ Julian and Lila have theirs, too. Different styles. Same purpose. Trackers. None of them know. And I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
I straighten my cuffs. When I look up, my voice is steel.
“And find me Irina. Now.”
66
Bella
“O.M.G, babe, I’ve never thought I’d step foot in L’Étoile Privée,” Elena whispers as we’re escorted through gold-trimmed glass doors by a woman whose posture suggests she’s balancing invisible books on her head. “Isn’t this where Beyoncé gets her eyebrows done when she’s in town?”
Before I can answer, a slender woman in a crisp white uniform glides toward us, carrying a silver tray with four flutes of champagne.
“Mrs. Belov,” she says with a smile that seems practiced in front of a mirror, “your welcome drinks. The rosé champagne your husband arranged for your party.”
“I’ll take sparkling water if you have it,” I say quickly, trying to sound casual.
“Of course, Mrs. Belov. Right away.” She nods. “The entire staff is at your disposal today,” she continues, distributingthe remaining glasses. “Mr. Belov was most insistent that you receive our undivided attention.”
“The entire staff?” I ask. “There must be other clients—”
“Oh no, Mrs. Belov.” She looks almost scandalized at the suggestion. “The salon is exclusively yours until 3 p.m. Mr. Belov was quite clear.”
After she leaves, Elena clutches her champagne flute to her chest dramatically.
“Oh, Mrs. Belov,” she whispers in a terrible French accent, “your husband, he is so powerful, so commanding. I hear when he sneezes, small countries declare national holidays.” She fans herself with her free hand. “Perhaps I could interest you in our caviar facial? We apply it with hundred-dollar bills, as per Mr. Belov’s usual instructions.”
“Would you stop?” I mutter, fighting a smile.
“Almost two months,” Elena continues, shaking her head in disbelief as she links her arm through mine. “All this without my best friend because she’s off living the high life in a mansion, and suddenly I’m being ushered into a place that has a two-year waiting list like I’m celebrity-adjacent.”
Lila and Alya appear from around a corner, wrapped in plush white robes that make them look like tiny luxury ghosts. They’re giggling, followed by two eager salon attendants who hover around them like butterflies.
“Oh, Jesus, Bella, this place is literally God-tier,” Lila announces, doing a little twirl. “They have heated toilet seats in the bathroom. Heated. Toilet. Seats. I’m moving in.”
Alya nods enthusiastically. “And they have candy-flavored lip gloss in the lockers! I got watermelon!”
I look around at the obscene display of wealth surrounding us—the gold fixtures, the crystal, the staff-to-client ratio that would make a royal palace seem understaffed—and feel that familiar wave of unreality wash over me. Two months ago, I wasclipping coupons and worrying about Julian’s tuition payments. Now, I’m casually spending a Saturday in a place where a basic manicure probably costs what I used to make in a day.
The salon is a shrine to all things luxurious—crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, velvet chairs so plush they swallow you whole, and a wall of mirrors that reflects perfectly manicured women flipping through glossy magazines. The scent of lavender and lemon oil hangs thick in the air, almost too much for my newly heightened sense of smell.
Ten minutes later, Elena is sprawled out on one of those ridiculous recliners, cucumber slices over her eyes, and her head wrapped in a cloud of foaming hair mask that’s supposed to smell like coconut but reeks of chemicals to me.
Lila and Alya sit beside her, their feet soaking in matching pink basins while two beauticians massage their calves. Lila’s eyes are closed, a soft, blissed-out smile on her face. Alya, on the other hand, is kicking up water like a small, feral cat.
“So, Trevor’s officially out of the picture,” Elena says, tossing a cucumber slice in the air and catching it in her mouth. “Turns out the guy meditates more than he, you know, gets it up.”
“Elena,” I hiss, glancing at the girls. Alya is too busy blowing bubbles with her mouth to pay attention, but Lila’s eyes snap open, her brows waggling like she understands more than she lets on.
Elena just grins, pulling the other cucumber slice from her eye and flicking it onto the tray beside her.
