Slow down, Bella, you’re not at a frat party.
But standing here, pantyless and paranoid, I feel like I’m auditioning for a role I didn’t sign up for. Konstantin’s wife? Yeah, right. More like his temporary prop, and the thought stings more than it should. I drain the flute and grab another from a waiter who doesn’t even look at me. Classy.
Desperate for a corner to hide in, I weave through the crowd to the bar along the ballroom’s edge. It’s quieter here, just a few women clustered together, their laughter like crystal clinking. They’re posh—Hollywood-star posh, dripping in elegance that makes my red dress feel like a clearance-rack knockoff. One’s in a sapphire gown that hugs her like a lover, sapphires sparkling at her throat, her blonde hair swept into an updo so perfect it probably took three stylists. Another rocks a black velvet dress, off-the-shoulder, with a slit that screams “I dare you to look,” her auburn curls bouncing as she laughs. The third’s in gold lamé, shimmering like a damn Oscar statuette, her manicured nails flashing as she gestures wildly.
I linger nearby, pretending to study the bar’s cocktail menu, but their voices carry, sharp and gossipy.
“Konstantin Belov, married? No way,” Sapphire Blonde says, her tone dripping with disbelief.
“I heard it tonight, swear to God. Some nobody, apparently.”
“Married?” Black Velvet scoffs, sipping her martini. “That man doesn’t do commitment. He’s too… untouchable. RememberMonaco last year? He left half the room panting and didn’t call a single one back.”
Gold Lamé gasps, leaning in. “Wait, what? Married? I came here thinking I’d get another shot with him!” Her laugh is half-joking, but there’s an edge, like she’s genuinely thrown. “You’re telling me I flew in from Dubai for nothing?”
My tummy churns, a nasty mix of jealousy and—ugh, amusement?
I mean, come on, these women are practically forming a Konstantin Belov fan club, and I’m the idiot who’s legally tied to him.
Sucks to be you, Goldie,I think, but the jab doesn’t land right. Because he’s not really mine, is he? Just a contract, a game, and yet the thought of him with her—or any of them—makes me want to fling my champagne in their faces.
Get it together, Bella. You’re not his girlfriend.
I’m halfway through my third flute—definitely a mistake—when a guy sidles up beside me. He’s… off, somehow. Too polished, like a magazine ad come to life—mid-forties, slick dark hair, a smile that’s pure teeth and charm. His suit’s sharp, but his vibe’s slippery, like he’s selling something.
“Evening,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “You look like you could use a friend in this shark tank. First time at the Summit?” he asks, eyes glinting with something I can’t place. “It’s a lot, right? All these egos in one room.” He chuckles, but it’s practiced, and his gaze keeps darting—over my shoulder, around the room, like he’s clocking every exit. “You here with someone special?”
My gut twists. Something’s wrong. He’s too nice, too curious, and the way he’s looking at me—like I’m a puzzle he’s itching to crack—sets my nerves on edge.
“Just… enjoying the night,” I hedge, gripping my flute tighter, wishing I hadn’t downed so much bubbly.
Stupid, Bella. You’re not this naive.
He tilts his head, smile widening. “Come on, you can tell me. I’m good at keeping secrets.” Then, lower, almost a whisper: “You’re with Konstantin Belov, aren’t you? Quite a catch.”
The name lands like a stone, and my heart stutters.
How does he—?
I open my mouth, fumbling for a lie, but before I can get a word out, a fist cracks across his face, hard and fast. The guy stumbles, blood spurting from his nose, and I jerk back, champagne sloshing over my hand.
I look up, and— Oh, God. Konstantin’s there, eyes blazing, fist still clenched, his whole body radiating fury like he’s ready to tear the room apart. My breath catches, and I swear, I’ve never been this wet in my life—not back at Bergdorf’s, not ever. He’s a storm, protective and primal, and the way he’s glaring at this creep, like he’d burn the Chateau down for me, has my core throbbing so hard I can barely stand.
“Who the fuck are you?” Konstantin snarls, stepping between me and the guy, but the stranger’s already scrambling back, hand to his face, eyes wide with something like fear—or calculation.
I’m frozen, heart pounding, wondering what the hell just happened—and what’s about to.
“Easy, Belov,” the guy says, voice steady despite the hit. “Just making conversation.” But his gaze flicks to me again, too long, too knowing, and my stomach lurches. He’s not random. He’s someone, and the way he says Konstantin’s name—like he’s got a file on him—makes my skin crawl.
Konstantin grabs his collar, yanking him close, and the room seems to freeze, heads turning, whispers rippling.
“Touch her again, and you’re dead,” he growls, low enough that only we hear, but it’s a promise, not a threat. My heart’shammering, torn between the thrill of his protection and a creeping dread—what does this guy want? Why me?
The stranger raises his hands, still smirking, but there’s a glint in his eyes—something hungry, like he’s won a prize he didn’t expect.
“No harm done,” he says, stepping back, but his glance at me lingers, a silent “I’ll be seeing you.” Then he slips into the crowd, gone before Konstantin can lunge again.
Konstantin turns to me, breathing hard, his face a mix of fury and—Fuck, is that worry?His hand cups my jaw, rough but gentle, searching my eyes.
