The car pulls up to a gleaming high-rise, all glass and steel reaching toward the sky like an ambitious prayer. The driver steps out to open my door, and I sit frozen, staring at the building that apparently houses my new professional life.
“Welcome to your new office, Mrs. Belov,” Konstantin says, his voice so close to my ear I can feel his breath. “I think you’ll find it’s been… upgraded.”
I turn to find his face inches from mine, those storm-gray eyes watching for my reaction. And, in this moment, I realize something terrifying: I have no idea which is the real trap—the marriage contract or the way my traitor heart leaps when he looks at me like this.
24
Konstantin
Isit at the head of the conference table, legs stretched out, cufflinks glinting in the light. Timur stands to my left, arms folded, posture like a mountain ready to crush whatever dares approach. Arseny lounges in a leather chair opposite me, ankle crossed over his knee, fingers tapping against a sleek tablet displaying project schematics.
“The dockyard purchase cleared,” Arseny is saying, flipping to the next screen without looking up. “Clean papers, offshore routing. We can move the shipments under the furniture front. Customs won’t see a damn thing.”
“The furniture store,” Timur rumbles, like the words themselves taste bitter. “Isn’t that what we used for the Dubrovnik run?”
“Exactly.” Arseny’s lips tighten with something resembling satisfaction. “No one will look twice. We already paid Customs enough to pretend they’re blind.”
I nod absently, but my attention slides traitorously toward the glass wall that overlooks the adjacent office space.
Her office.
A glass enclosure, pristine and too exposed. I should’ve thought of that. Should’ve had them frost the glass or wall it off entirely. Instead, I watch her like a starving man watches flame over raw meat.
Bella moves through the room like she owns it, oblivious to the pulse she ignites under my skin. She’s on the phone, holding it between her shoulder and ear, her head tilted in concentration. Waves of dark hair tumble forward, framing her face as she scribbles notes in sharp, practiced strokes.
Her brows knit together, lips parted slightly as she switches the phone to her hand, tucking her hair back behind her ear. Her eyes flick up. And find mine.
A spark. No—a jolt. Her gaze falters, eyelashes fluttering just for a second, and then her lips press together, trying to hide the way they curve at the edges. It’s a moment, brief and sharp as a razor’s kiss, but it detonates low in my stomach.
My office was never meant for this chaos.
Minimal. Controlled. The fewer people, the better. But now?
Now, there’s a whole ecosystem growing on my floor.
Jenna, Bella’s receptionist, sits at the front like she’s running a mom-and-pop hardware store instead of the front desk of a multi-billion-dollar empire. She’s typing fast, brows furrowed, and chewing the end of her pen like she’s calculating discounts for bulk fertilizer.
And then there’s Leonie—imported straight from Belov HQ. Sharp French precision, hair knotted in a severe bun, her skirt pencil-tight. Efficient. Predictable. Corporate elegance incarnate. She runs schedules like battlefield logistics, but even she glances—barely, but enough—when Bella crosses the floor.
I’m about to respond to Timur when Bella emerges from the glass doors of Elite Properties. Even from here, the confident swing of her hips is unmistakable. She’s wearing something dark and fitted, her hair loose down her back. Professional but striking.
Every guard in the lobby turns to look at her. One—young, with a face I’ve never bothered to memorize—actually pivots his entire body to watch her walk to the coffee station.
“Fire him,” I say, cutting Arseny off mid-sentence.
Timur straightens, sensing the shift in my attention. “The man running the furniture front?” he clarifies, brow tightening.
“No. That one.” I nod toward the guard. “The one staring at my wife. Fire him.”
Timur follows my gaze, then exchanges a look with Arseny that makes my jaw tighten.
“Something amusing?” I ask, my voice dropping to a register that usually precedes violence.
Arseny, the only man in my organization with the balls to smile in the face of my anger, actually chuckles.
“Extremely.”
“Yobany v rot,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair.
