5. Chapter 5
5
Bella
I f there is a hell, I’m in it.
My smile has been frozen in place for exactly thirty-seven minutes.
Thirty-seven minutes of “congratulations” in languages I don’t understand. Thirty-seven minutes of air kisses from women wearing about a ton of diamonds. Thirty-seven minutes of men eyeing me like I’m either a prized cow at auction or a target on a shooting range.
Welcome to my wedding ceremony. Population: three hundred of the wealthiest, most dangerous people I’ve never wanted to meet.
I feel like… what? Not a prop, exactly. An acquisition, maybe. A rare art piece put on display. The kind people nod at, murmur about, but ultimately don’t care if it has thoughts of its own.
The applause has faded, the vows are done, but the performance isn’t over.
“Smile,” Konstantin murmurs near my ear, his lips just barely brushing the shell of it. A flicker of heat, an accident—or not.
I school my expression into something pleasant and vacant, the way I’ve seen high-society wives do in those glossy magazines. I wonder if any of them ever wanted to rip off their heels, steal a car, and make a break for it.
Probably not.
Because they weren’t bought.
I was.
For a house. For my family.
And now, I stand beside a man who wears ownership as easily as his custom Armani suit.
His hand rests low on my back—always touching, always claiming. Warm and firm, fingers grazing exposed skin in lazy strokes like he’s testing the feel of me. Like he already knows the weight of me in his hands, and now, he’s just getting reacquainted.
A prickle crawls up the side of my neck. That unmistakable feeling of being watched.I turn—and find her.
She’s draped in a blood-red gown, all sharp lines and sharper intentions. Diamonds catch the light at her ears and throat, each one flashing like a warning. Her blonde hair is slicked back into a twist, neat and cruel.
She moves toward us, unhurried, a younger man in a black suit at her side. He’s polished and eager, one hand brushing her hip like he’s hoping she’ll notice. She doesn’t. Her eyes stay locked on my husband .
“ Vy sdelali prekrasnyy vybor , Konstantin,” she purrs, addressing my husband while examining me like I’m a suspect piece of furniture.
I don’t need a Russian dictionary to understand I’m being discussed, not addressed. I’ve been reduced to third-person status at my own wedding.
Konstantin responds in rapid Russian, his voice carrying that hint of steel wrapped in velvet that I’m beginning to recognize as his public tone. The couple laughs—not the genuine kind, but the calculated chuckle of people who know better than to not laugh at the boss’s joke.
Oh God.
My feet are screaming. These replacement shoes—Italian leather torture devices—are half a size too small. Each heartbeat sends a fresh throb of pain through my pinched toes. I shift my weight slightly, earning a subtle tightening of Konstantin’s grip on my waist.
Stay still. Be pretty. Don’t embarrass me.
Message received, sir.
I scan the reception hall—a soaring space with crystal chandeliers, ice sculptures, and enough floral arrangements to depopulate several botanical gardens. Everything is white, gold, and glacial blue. Elegant. Expensive. Extravagant.
And none of it was my choice.
“Congratulations,” someone says, shaking my hand. A woman, rail-thin, dressed in couture I’ll never be able to pronounce, let alone afford.
I mumble something polite. I’ve lost track of who I’ve spoken to, how many strangers have smiled at me like I’m some fascinating new pet Konstantin just acquired.
I recognize some of them. Men from Forbes, women from Vogue. The occasional familiar face from the society pages that I’ve never met but have definitely mocked before.
And then there are the Russians.
Low voices. Measured words. A handful of men with tattoos creeping from under their starched cuffs, their presence heavy, unspoken danger wrapped in silk ties and wealth.
Bratva.
I don’t need to understand Russian to feel it—the power, the silent hierarchy that shifts around Konstantin like a tide bending to the moon. These aren’t just businessmen. These are men who can rewrite the future with a nod or a whisper.
And I just married one of them.
God help me.