And don’t you dare give me some sanitized ‘it was nice’ bullshit. I want smut. Verbal smut. My love language is oversharing.
I cover my face with one hand and groan into my palm. Of course she wants a play-by-play like I’m some deranged travel blogger who just banged a foreign landmark.
Another ping.
Babe. BELLA. Did he say nyet while wrecking your soul?? I NEED TO KNOW IF I SHOULD ORDER US MATCHING “I SURVIVED THE RUSSIAN” TANK TOPS.
I laugh so hard I nearly drop the phone. My abs hurt. Or maybe it’s the fact I spent half the night tied up in a penthouse suite having the kind of sex that rewires your entire operating system.
I type:
Me: I’m still recovering. My spine isn’t where I left it. Give me a few hours and maybe a donut.
Me: Also, yes. He growled. Multiple times. You’d combust.
Three dots appear immediately. Then stop. Then appear again.
And I know I’ve just detonated her.
Good. Let her suffer. She left me alone withNatasha the Dress Wardenand an orgasm-induced identity crisis. This is payback.
I toss the phone to the side, finally dragging the covers off my legs, ready to limp toward the shower and pretend I have a functioning spine. My feet barely hit the floor before my phone buzzes again.
I groan. “Elena, if you’ve found vending machine thongs, I swear—”
I glance at the screen.
It’s not her.
Konstantin.
No emoji. No punctuation. Just three words:
Konstantin: Dinner tonight with the family. 7 p.m.
That’s it. Nothing else. No context. No warning.
And somehow, it’s enough to make my entire body go still.
Becausehisfamily? That could mean anything. And suddenly, sore muscles and inappropriate lip gloss don’t seem like the biggest problem in the room.
12
Bella
Natasha showed up right after the text from my husband—because apparently that’s what Konstantin is now—with all the subtlety of a couture SWAT team.
She didn’t ask if I was ready. She simply handed me an espresso and said, “Mr. Belov sends this ensemble for your first day as Director of Sales. Congratulations.”
As if this was routine. As if people gift silk slacks and power titles the way others hand out mints.
I blinked at the clothes. She blinked back. We both knew resistance was pointless.
Then came the once-over. Natasha’s eyes dragged down my robe-clad frame, pausing just long enough at my neck to make me acutely aware of the fading red mark there. Her expression doesn’t change, but I swear I can feel her cataloging it—like another line item on some private inventory list she keeps in that perfectly structured brain of hers.
“You’ll need a shower,” she says, tone clipped and final. “He prefers punctuality.”
I don’t ask whoheis. I just walk.
