Every step is a tightrope walk over a pit of Don’t Let Your Clit Betray You, and with Konstantin’s hand resting low on my hip as he guides me out, I’m losing, big time.
His touch is electric, sending sparks straight to my core, and my body’s like, “Yes, please, let’s melt right here on Sunset Boulevard.” My brain, though? It’s screaming,“Bella, you’re 29, not thirteen—act like you’ve met a man before!”
But functioning around Konstantin is like trying to solve calculus during an earthquake. He’s all brooding intensity, six-foot-four of tailored menace, smelling like cedar and remorse. And the kicker? I know he’s just as wrecked. I saw it—the way his jaw clenched, the way his cock strained like it wanted to stage a jailbreak back there.
Two adults circling each other like idiots in a lust-fueled standoff, and I’m pissed he’s winning at keeping it together. I’m one wrong move from begging, and I hate how much I want to.
The Chateau Marmont towers ahead, LA’s glittering castle of old glamor and new power, its gothic arches glowing under the night sky. The Summit’s tonight, and it’s not some casual mixer. Picture 200 of the city’s heavy hitters—billionaires with private jets, politicians with dirtier secrets than their offshore accounts, power brokers sealing deals that’d make your accountant cry—all packed into one room, sipping Dom Pérignon like it’s water.
Wives only, Konstantin said, which means I’m his polished prop, here to dazzle and not disgrace. Awesome. Nothing says “dream night” like being eye candy for a guy who makes my thighs quiver and my common sense vanish.
I force my legs to move, praying this red silk doesn’t broadcast how precarious my situation is down there. Konstantin’s hand stays on my hip, fingers grazing just close enough to where I’m bare to make me grit my teeth. He’s doing it on purpose, I swear—sadistic bastard.
“You holding up,krasavitsa?” he murmurs, voice a low rumble that hits me like a shot of whiskey.
“Totally fine,” I lie, but it’s more of a squeak, and my face heats up.
Great job, Bella, super convincing.
I focus on the lobby to keep from imploding. The Chateau’s interior is a fantasy of velvet drapes and gold trim, chandeliers sparkling like they’re flexing their net worth.
A socialite in a skintight emerald dress—think Botox and ambition in human form—shoots Konstantin a look that’s half flirt, half appraisal, then sizes me up like I’m last season’s Gucci. A waiter, barely 20, juggles a tray of martinis, his eyes darting nervously when Konstantin glances his way. And there’s a security guard near the grand staircase, built like a linebacker, muttering into an earpiece while scanning the crowd like he’s hunting spies.
The vibe’s all money and menace, everyone playing their part, and I’m just trying not to trip over my own hormones.
The ballroom’s even worse—a glittering maze of tuxedos and gowns, the air buzzing with low laughter and clinking glasses. I catch fragments of talk—tax loopholes, Santa Monica waterfront—and spot a silver-haired guy who probably owns half the Pacific Coast nodding at Konstantin like they’re old chess rivals. My stomach twists. This is his world, cold and cutthroat, and I’m wading in with nothing but a dress and a pulse that won’t quit racing. I’m half-convinced I’ll say something dumb, like asking for a burger in a room full of caviar snobs.
I’m about to lean into Konstantin—maybe ask what I’m supposed to do besides look pretty—when two figures slice through the crowd like knives through butter. Timur, his right-hand man, all sharp angles and arctic vibes, barely acknowledges me with a glance. Arseny’s beside him, broader, ascar across his brow that says he’s seen things I don’t want to imagine. They don’t waste time on small talk.
“Boss,” Timur says, voice clipped. “Minister’s waiting. Hudson Yards. Says it’s urgent.”
Konstantin’s hand tightens on my hip, just for a second, and I feel the shift in him—playtime’s over, back to kingpin mode.
“Stay here,” he tells me, eyes locking on mine, a warning and a promise rolled into one. “Don’t wander.”
I open my mouth—maybe to snap something sarcastic about not being his pet—but he’s already moving, Timur and Arseny flanking him like wolves as they head toward a private alcove. The crowd parts, and I’m left standing there, dress clinging to my skin, no panties, and a whole lot of “what the hell is my life” rattling in my head.
I grab a flute of champagne from a passing tray, mostly to have something to do with my hands. The Summit swirls around me, a sea of power and polish, but all I can think is how Konstantin’s touch still burns, how I’m aching for a man I should hate, and how I’m supposed to survive this night without losing what’s left of my sanity.
Cheers to that, Bella. Cheers to that.
The ballroom’s a glittering cage, and I’m the odd bird flapping in the middle. Without Konstantin’s shadow to anchor me, I’m just… here, clutching my flute like it’s a life raft.
I take a sip—okay, a gulp—and then another because, holy hell, everyone’s staring.
Or maybe they’re not, but it feels like it.
A guy in a tux with a watch that could retire me slides past, his eyes flicking over me like I’m a misplaced intern. A woman with diamond earrings bigger than my thumbnail whispers to her friend, their glances sharp enough to cut.Who’s this chick?Lost tourist?their looks scream.
Fuck this.
My stomach knots. I don’t belong here—not in this dress, not in this world. I’m a nobody playing dress-up, and they can smell it.
Another gulp of champagne.
Bad idea.
The bubbles hit too fast, fizzing in my head, and I’m already wobbly in these heels.
