His face is weathered but still handsome in that severe, aristocratic way that seems to run in the Belov bloodline. Steel-gray hair, thick eyebrows, and eyes so piercing they could probably see through walls. Or into souls. Definitely my soul, which feels suddenly very exposed and underdressed for the occasion.
Next to the bed stands another man—shorter, with gentle hands and kind eyes that seem wildly out of place in this room. Dr. Gurinov, I assume.
“Father,” Konstantin says with a formal nod. “This is Isabella, my wife.” Then to me, “Isabella, this is my father, Anatoly Belov.”
The introduction seems strangely normal for such an abnormal situation, like we’re at a dinner party instead of a hospital room masquerading as a royal chamber.
“Konstantin,” Anatoly says, his voice surprisingly strong. Not the raspy whisper of a recovering patient but the commanding tone of a general addressing a disappointing lieutenant. “You’re late.”
“Traffic,” Konstantin lies smoothly.
There was no traffic. We only came from downstairs, though Konstantin did pause in the hallway to check his phone twice, his jaw tightening each time. I didn’t ask. Some questions in this house come with answers I’m not ready to hear.
Anatoly’s gaze slides to me, and I resist the urge to check if I’m turning to stone. “So this is the wife.”
Not “your wife.” Not “Isabella.” Just “the wife.” Like I’m a checkbox on a form he’s reluctantly initialing.
“Isabella,” Konstantin confirms. “We were married last week.”
“I know when you were married,” the older man snaps. “I may have been unconscious, but I wasn’t dead.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at the absurdity of that statement. Laughing feels dangerous, like lighting a match in a room full of dynamite.
“Mr. Belov.” I step forward, extending my hand before I can think better of it. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
The room goes so quiet I can hear the steady beep of the heart monitor hidden behind a silk screen. Boris makes a small choking sound like he’s swallowed his tongue. Even the doctor freezes mid-note.
ThePakhanstares at my outstretched hand like I’ve offered him a dead fish. Then, miraculously, he takes it. His grip is firm but trembling slightly—the only sign of his physical weakness.
“American,” he says, making it sound like a medical diagnosis. “Bold. Undisciplined. Tell me, girl, what do you know about our family?”
“Not much,” I admit, and if my voice trembles, let’s all agree to pretend it’s just an early morning vocal warm-up.
He releases my hand, dismissing me as easily as swatting away a fly. Just like that, I cease to exist. I’m background noise, female wallpaper in a room where men make decisions. It should bother me more than it does, but right now, invisibility feels like a superpower.
I take a small step back, suddenly fascinated by the precise arrangement of medical equipment behind the ornate silk screen.
“You look better,” Konstantin says, switching to business mode. His voice is different when he speaks to his father—harder, colder.
“Don’t patronize me,” Anatoly replies. “I know why you’re here.”
Konstantin’s jaw tightens. “I fulfilled your conditions.”
“Yes,” Anatoly says, his eyes flicking to me briefly before dismissing me entirely. “You found a wife. Congratulations.”
The way he says it makes it clear that congratulations are the last thing on his mind.
Anatoly shifts, wincing slightly as he adjusts his position against the pillows. “You’ve always been stubborn. Like your mother.”
The temperature in the room plummets. Even the beeping monitor seems to quiet down in respect for whatever nerve Anatoly just struck.
Anatoly’s eyes flick to me, studying me like I’m a disappointing investment. His gaze is clinical, assessing, and clearly finding me lacking.
“This is your choice?” he asks Konstantin, not bothering to hide his disapproval. “This is who you selected to fulfill the requirement?”
Konstantin’s posture stiffens. “I made my choice.”
Anatoly shakes his head slowly. “I expected someone more… suitable for our world.”
