Welcome to the family,moya zhena.
18
Bella
Idon’t even wait for the last dish to be cleared. I make my exit from the table with a casual grace that is absolutely faked. If anyone here thinks I’m composed, I deserve an Oscar.
My chest is tight, like I’ve been holding my breath since the moment Konstantin’s mother walked in. Maybe I have been.
Sun is setting, casting a honeyed glow over the estate. It’s ridiculous how beautiful this place is, like it’s daring me to relax.
The garden kitchen sprawls out like a hidden retreat—lush and green, a world away from the steel and marble of the main house. A long wooden table stretches under a pergola wrapped in jasmine vines, their sweet scent mingling with the fresh, earthy aroma of basil and thyme. Planters burst with herbs, vegetables, and a riot of flowers, a miniature Eden that feels more secret garden than estate.
Somehow, it’s quiet out here. No clattering dishes. No piercing looks from Konstantin’s mother. No child prodigies casuallydiscussing tactical assessments like they’re planning an 8-year-old coup.
Just peace.
Until I hear the children.
“Careful, Lev! You’re squashing the raspberries!” Alya scolds from somewhere behind the herb wall.
“Not my fault they’re soft,” Lev fires back, his voice full of dramatic offense.
I step closer to the stone counter, resting my palms on the cool surface, peeking around the edge.
There they are—half-hidden behind the rosemary and thyme—Lev, Alya, and Nikolai picking fruits from the sprawling garden beds like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Konstantin is there, too.
Not watching. Participating.
He crouches beside Alya, plucking a fat blackberry and inspecting it like it’s a jewel. He offers it to her, and she beams.
“Always the darkest ones,” he says, low and sure. “They hold the most sweetness.”
She nods like he’s imparted some ancient wisdom, popping the berry into her mouth.
My chest tightens again, but for a different reason this time.
Because… damn it. He’s a good father.
No. Scratch that. He’s agreatfather. The kind of father you see in feel-good commercials, the kind I never expected from a man who discusses obstacle courses over dinner like it’s perfectly natural.
“Papa,” Nikolai says, standing ramrod straight like a soldier, “permission to retrieve more figs?”
I bite back a laugh. It comes out as a strangled little noise in my throat.
Konstantin glances over his shoulder, catching me watching him.
And there it is—that heat.
Subtle, smoldering, unmistakable.
“Permission granted,” he says, but his eyes are all on me now as ifI’mthe next prize he plans to pluck from the vine.
The children scatter off toward the fig tree, giving us an accidental moment alone. Or maybe it’s not accidental. Maybe they’re just smart enough to know when to give their father space.
I linger by the counter, running my fingers over a bowl of glistening blackberries.
