Chapter 47 Bella
BELLA
I catch myself touching the necklace for the third time while I check my make-up.
The seven-pointed star feels heavier tonight, and I try to imagine that it might protect me as I prepare to walk into a controlled demolition of my own making.
I've spent five years building a fortress from lies in the hopes of destroying Slava Romanov. And tonight, I’m about to tear it all down for him.
I've rehearsed my confession over and over again. Practiced in the mirror like a deranged actor preparing for the role of a lifetime: I might’ve been lying to you from the start, but please believe that somewhere along the way, the lies started hurting me more than they could ever hurt you.
The buzzer sounds. He's here.
I grab my purse, check my reflection one more time, and head for the door. My heels click against the floor with each step, and each step sounds like another gunshot going off behind my head.
Tell him. Just tell him. Rip off the bandage, let the wound breathe, and accept whatever bleeding follows.
The black car is waiting at the curb. The windows are tinted so that I can’t see him. But I know he’s inside as sure as I know that my heart is slamming in my chest. I’ve never been more scared than I am now.
But I know the fear isn’t directed at him, but at what the truth might cost me.
God, the truth. What a concept.
Will he accept what I tell him? Or will the warmth I finally glimpsed from his winter-gray eyes drain when he realizes that he never should have let me in?
I open the door, slide inside, and turn to face him.
Then my heart stops.
He looks at me with a directness in his gaze that I’ve seen a thousand times already. But this doesn’t quite feel the same. Where his gaze once set me ablaze, now there is an iciness that freezes me in place.
I know what that look is, because it’s the same look I had for him for five years.
Hate.
Cold, crystalline hate freezing those gray eyes like lake ice cracking in winter. And my rehearsed confession dies in my throat. The words I've been practicing and the vulnerable truth I planned to offer turn to ash before I can shape my mouth around the first syllable.
He knows.
He has to know. There's no other explanation for that look or for the absolute stillness of his body.
"Slava—" I start.
"Open your hand." His voice is still deep and it still rumbles, but there is an unmistakable hurt in it as he commands me.
I do as I’m told. My hand opens and I hold my palm out, waiting for him to condemn me.
He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls something out, and drops it into my palm.
I know what it is. I know it even before the tiny dried flake—lighter than a feather—brushes my skin.
The thumbprint.
I close my hand around it, and the world goes silent like someone pressed mute on reality itself. All I can hear now is the roar of my own blood in my ears. There’s not a goddamn thing I can say that can save me now, I realize, not a damn thing that can save us.
"Tell me what it is."
"It's a fingerprint." My voice is strange and distant, and for a moment, I swear I can see myself as if I’m astral projecting out of my own body. "Your fingerprint. Made out of glue."
"And what did you use it for?"
I almost wish that he’s yelling and screaming at me. Anything would be better than this controlled anger. Yelling means his blood burns hot. Yelling means that he still cares enough to be angry.
"I used it to open your safe," I tell him, and continue my confession because I don’t want him to drag it out of me. "I photographed a list of names. I sent it to Nico D'Ambrosio."
"What else did you do?"
"The chateau." My throat is closing up, but I force the words out anyway. "I sent the location to Nico as well."
He leans closer, and I realize I'm pressed back against the car door, trying to put as much distance between us as the confined space allows.
"Why, Bella?"
Because this was the only choice I had left. Because this is how I can save both boys. But the words never take shape on my mouth, because I know he won’t believe me now. And why would he?
I led the D’Ambrosios to his son. I sent them to his home. He’s going to get hurt because of me.
If I want to keep him safe, then I have to push him away from me.
So, I tell him the lie that I wish is still true. “Because we’re enemies, right?”
His jaw tightens. “Enemies.”
I don’t respond as I hold his gaze and force myself to meet his frozen gray eyes. He’s trying to arrange his face into an emotionless mask, but I can see the hurt etched across its perfect lines.
"You betrayed me, malyshka.”
That word slides between my ribs like a knife.
“I did.”
“And do you remember what I told you when you asked what I would do if you betrayed me?"
"I do," I whisper, and the ghost of his lips press hot and insistent on my mouth.
If you ever betray me, malyshka, you'll wish you were still my enemy.
"Good." He reaches out slowly and grips my chin. "Because I'm about to make good on that promise."
Ice floods my veins from his words, but fire pours into my heart from his touch. My lower lip trembles, but there’s nowhere left to go.
"I'm going to destroy you for this," he says quietly. "I’m going to hurt you for this. For every lie you've told. I'm going to take it apart piece by piece until there's nothing left.”
Tell him! My brain screams. Tell him the truth before you do something stupid! But I don't.
Because this is the only way, and this is exactly what I deserve.
The certainty settles over me like a shroud. I deserve this. Whatever destroy means, I've earned it. Not through bad luck or unfortunate circumstances, but through choice after choice after choice, each one leading me deeper into a lie I couldn't sustain.
“You should,” I tell him, and the car starts to move.
It turns down the street onto the familiar path to his penthouse. His knuckles are bone-white as they grip the steering wheel. He stares straight ahead, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed.
Almost as if he can’t quite believe what we’re about to do.
When we arrive, he steps out without looking at me. Then, he’s opening my door, and his large hand closes like a vise around my arm. Fire and ice war for control in my heart as he yanks me out of the car.
He force-marches me to the elevator, and then spins me around to face him, as if waiting for me to plead my case to him one final time. Warmth swims back into his gray eyes for a moment, and it almost—almost—breaks my resolve.
I’m shivering now. My hands open and close by my side as my chest rises and falls as I look up at him. Even in my heels, he towers over me. Slowly, his hands rise up until they close around my neck, making me feel simultaneously threatened and protected all at once.
I imagine him squeezing with cold fury in his eyes until my world blacks out. And the fucked-up part is that the thought leaves me feeling wetter than I’ve ever felt.
The elevator opens, and he gives me a slight push. I step back inside with his hand around my throat.
The doors close and we begin to rise like a bubble rising through dark water.
I was going to tell you, I think at his reflection. I was going to be honest.
But I wasn’t fast enough, and now it doesn’t matter.
He steps into my space until my body is pressed completely against him.
A violent shudder courses through my body, and a slow fire starts to burn even as my heart freezes.
My hand is still closed around the glue thumbprint, but I don’t dare close my fist any harder lest I accidentally destroy the evidence of my guilt.
“Tell me why you did it,” he insists again as the elevator begins to slow. “Or I’ll think that you want me to hurt you.”
I don’t close my eyes, even as a tear begins to bead at the corner of my eye. Yes… hurt me. Hate me. Destroy me.
Because once you do, you’ll save yourself and your son. And that’ll all be worth it.
“Then hurt me,” I whisper. “Do your fucking worst.”