“The will didn’t specify qualifications,” Konstantin replies, his voice dropping dangerously. “Just marriage. Legal and binding. Those were your exact words.”
“Technicalities,” Anatoly mutters.
“Your technicalities,” Konstantin counters. “Your will. Your conditions.”
Their voices rise, sharp syllables cutting across each other as they switch to Russian. I catch words that sound like “contract” and “promise,” but the rest is lost to me. Then Anatoly slams his hand down on the bed.
“Enough!” he switches back to English. “What’s done is done. You’re married. The will is satisfied.”
Wait. What?
“You promised,” Konstantin says, voice deadly quiet. “If I married, I would bePakhan. No challenges, no questions.”
And there it is. The reason I’m here. The reason for our hasty wedding, the contract, all of it.
I’m not a wife. I’m a stipulation.
My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. I should be angry—Iamangry—but mostly, I’m… fascinated. It’s like watching the climax of a movie I didn’t know I was starring in.
“And you will be,” Anatoly assures him, though his eyes linger on me with obvious doubt. “Though this choice of yours makes me question your judgment.”
Konstantin’s jaw tightens. “I fulfilled the requirement. The choice was mine to make.”
“Yes,” Anatoly says, looking again at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve. “Your choice. Your… wife.”
“The council meeting,” Konstantin redirects. “I need your support. Formally.”
“You have it,” Anatoly says simply. “You’re my son. My heir. My blood.”
The words sound rehearsed, like he’s said them before—maybe many times—but there’s something hollow about them. Like reciting lines from a play you’ve performed too many times to feel anymore.
Konstantin doesn’t react, but I see it—a tiny muscle in his jaw twitching, a tell I’m starting to recognize. He wanted something more from those words. Needed something more.
“I upheld my end,” Konstantin says quietly. “I expect you to uphold yours.”
For a moment, father and son stare at each other, and I glimpse something painful and unresolved stretching between them like a live wire.
“I keep my promises,” he says, smooth as glass. “In my own time.”
His eyes flick to me—sideways, calculating.
And just like that, I get it.
This house isn’t built on trust. It’s built on debts. Promises twisted into weapons.
And if you’re smart, you never believe anyone when they saysoon.
23
Bella
The most unlikely normal day.
On a normal day, I’d already be swearing at Betsy’s gasping, rattling engine while begging her to please, for the love of all things holy, survive one more client meeting. I’d be chewing the inside of my cheek, calculating which bill I could push to next week without the lights getting cut or which property tax notice could be safely ignored until it turned red and started flashing like a bomb about to go off.
Normal day: triple-booked showings, frantic voicemails from prospective buyers wanting to “sleep on it” while knowing damn well they’re ghosting me.
Normal day: scrounging for new leads, juggling Julian and Lila’s school chaos, dodging passive-aggressive texts from Peggy about the house.
