“It’s just Bella,” I say automatically, though I know it’s useless. From the moment we stepped into this place, it was clear the staff had been briefed on exactly who I was—or, more specifically, who I was married to.
As I follow her to the manicure station, I feel a wave of nausea hit me so suddenly that I have to grip the edge of a nearby chair. The smell of acetone and polish remover slams into me like a truck.
“Are you alright, Mrs. Belov?” the attendant asks, concern etched across her face.
“Fine,” I manage, breathing through my mouth. “Just… maybe we could move to a station near a window? I need some air.”
She nods quickly, changing course. “Of course. Right this way.”
Elena catches my eye, raising an eyebrow in silent question. I give her a small nod to say I’m okay. The nausea is new and not new all at once—I’ve been sick every morning for the past week, but the triggers keep changing. Yesterday it was Konstantin’s cologne lingering in the hallway. Today, it’s nail polish. Tomorrow, it might be oxygen.
The joys of pregnancy.
“Bella, look!” Alya calls from her pedicure station, wiggling her toes. “They’re making my nails look like little stars!”
I smile, the nausea receding slightly. “They’re beautiful, Alya.”
“Lila’s going to teach me TikTok dances later,” she announces proudly. “She says I’m a natural.”
“She is,” Lila confirms, not looking up from her phone. “Kid’s got rhythm.”
“Please tell me you’re not corrupting an 8-year-old with WAP,” I mutter to my sister as I pass her chair.
Lila rolls her eyes. “Give me some credit. We’re starting with the coffee dance.”
“The what now?”
“It’s this stupid thing where you pretend to—” She breaks off, making a stirring motion with her hand. “Never mind. It’s age-appropriate, I swear.”
One of the security guards moves to a position where he can see all of us at once. His expression never changes, but I swear there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes as he watches Alya demonstrate what I assume is the coffee dance, her tiny hands mimicking stirring something.
“Your security detail is hot,” Elena stage-whispers as I sit beside her at the manicure station. “Like, unnecessarily hot. Do they recruit from modeling agencies or what?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I mutter, though I’ve wondered the same thing. Every man in Konstantin’s security team looks like he was carved from granite and then taught to scowl professionally.
“That one hasn’t taken his eyes off you since we got here,” she continues, nodding toward a guard stationed near the back entrance. “The one with the cheekbones that could cut glass.”
“That’s Dimitri,” I say, recognizing him from the house. “And he’s watching me because that’s literally his job.”
“Mmm, sure, honey. Keep telling yourself that.” Elena stretches her legs, crossing them at the ankles. “So, when exactly are you going to tell Mr. Big Bad Boss about the bun in your oven?”
I nearly choke on my own breath. “Could you be any louder? I don’t think they heard you in Sacramento.”
“Relax. The girls are halfway across the room, and these guys,” she jerks her head toward the security team, “are probably trained to tune out idle chatter. So? When?”
I sigh, watching as the manicurist files my nails into perfect ovals. “After the ceremony. Once everything settles down.”
“And when will that be, exactly? Because from what I understand, becoming the head honcho of a crime family isn’t exactly a ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ kind of deal.”
“I don’t know, Elena. But I can’t dump this on him right now. He’s barely sleeping as it is.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “That’s not the only reason you’re waiting, is it? What aren’t you telling me?”
I hesitate, thinking about Yelena’s ultimatum. Two weeks to decide whether to terminate the pregnancy, take the money and run, or… what? Stay and fight? For a man who married me for a signature on a contract?
“It’s complicated,” I finally say.
“Mm-hmm. And the longer you wait, the more complicated it gets.” Elena leans back in her chair, letting the manicurist paint her nails a deep, bloody red. “You know what I think?”
