11. Chapter 11
11
Bella
I wake up naked in sheets I didn’t choose, in a bed that doesn’t belong to me, in a silence that feels all wrong.
The room is too still. Too soft.
No Betsy sputtering to life. No Lila slamming cabinets in protest of waking up before noon. No Julian yelling at the microwave. Just… nothing.
And my body? Sore in the way that makes me shift under the covers and immediately regret it. My wrists ache—faint lines wrapping them like invisible bracelets. Proof of what last night was. Proof that I let him. That I wanted it.
And still—I slept. Deep, dreamless, actual sleep. The kind of sleep that shouldn’t happen after signing your life away to a man you barely know.
I should be spiraling. I should be panic-texting Elena, Googling annulment laws, but… I’m not. I’m just… lying here.
And that’s what unsettles me the most. Not the sex. Not the marks, not even the contract taped to the inside of my suitcase like a legal crucifix.
It’s the quiet. The absence of crisis. For the first time in years, I’m not waking up mid-freefall.
And the sick part?
This is what I wanted.
What I’ve clawed toward, sobbed for, sold every last ounce of pride to secure.
No more checking account overdrafts.
No more praying that Julian’s school doesn’t call asking about unpaid fees.
No more walking through my house like it’s a battleground, waiting for Peggy or Mike to show up with another legal landmine.
No more Lila crying in her room because she thinks her life is unraveling, and I’m too tired to fix it.
All I ever wanted was for those problems to go away.
And now they have.
Which should feel like freedom.
But somehow, it’s terrifying.
Like standing in the eye of a storm and knowing the wind will come back eventually—louder, meaner, with your name etched into the thunder.
My phone buzzes.
I groan as I roll over, and every muscle in my body revolts.
“Oh God,” I grunt, dragging the word out like it might offer mercy. My thighs are wrecked. My arms, stiff. Even my hips feel like they’ve been reassembled wrong.
I fumble for the phone. It’s glowing obnoxiously bright against the nightstand. I blink at the screen. Notifications—so many.
Lila’s first. Of course.
The water pressure here is VIOLENT. Pretty sure I dislocated a boob.
Also, the dorm hairdryer tried to eat my face.
Also also—WHEN CAN I SEE YOU? I’M DROWNING IN PRIVATE SCHOOL HELL.
I press the phone against my chest and close my eyes for a beat. She’s pissed, uncomfortable, dramatic as hell—but she still wants to see me.
A small lump lodges in my throat.
I haven’t told her yet.
She doesn’t know about the marriage. Doesn’t know I’ve tied my life—literally and legally—to a man she’s never even met.
I start typing, then stop. Then delete the whole thing.
I need to talk to Konstantin.
About weekends. About our house. About whether the deal includes letting me see my family—you know, the people I did all this for.
Because if this “marriage” doesn’t allow me to hug my sister every Sunday and let Julian sneak into the kitchen to raid the fridge at midnight like he always does… then what the hell was the point?
Not now.
I’ll text Lila back later—when I’ve figured out how to lie without making it worse. Or maybe when I’m brave enough to tell her the truth. Whichever version of me shows up first.
I let the phone rest on my stomach, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. Some gold chandelier thing glints overhead—excess in crystal form. It doesn’t belong to me. None of this does.
But then—another buzz. A different kind of notification. No whining. No emojis in all caps. Just a picture.
Julian.
It’s the first thing all morning that doesn’t feel confusing.
I tap out a reply.
Me: Is that a telescope behind you? So you’ve officially gone full nerd? Also—tell me you’re not charming your way into free snacks from the TA again. P.S. Proud of you. Even if you look like you’re about to launch a startup from row three.
I hesitate before hitting send. Then I add one more line.
Me: I miss you.
Because I do. And I need him to know that part’s still true.
Then Elena’s name lights up my screen.
Because if anyone is going to ruin my emotionally vulnerable moment with chaos and inappropriate emojis, it’s her.
Cultural update: vending machine. Used socks. Anime branding. Japan is deeply confusing and mildly arousing. [Photo attached: a tube of lip gloss shaped like a tiny penis.] Got you one. For emergencies.
I laugh. Loud. Which feels… wrong. I should not be laughing while naked in the aftermath of whatever last night was. But I am.
And for once, I don’t have to pretend I’m okay. I just am. Which might be the most terrifying part of all.
A second later, another text from Elena pops up.
BTW don’t think you’re escaping without DETAILS. I want to know everything. Positions. Sounds. How many times. Did he growl? Did you black out? Was there furniture involved??
And don’t you dare give me some sanitized ‘it was nice’ bullshit. I want smut. Verbal smut. My love language is oversharing.
I cover my face with one hand and groan into my palm. Of course she wants a play-by-play like I’m some deranged travel blogger who just banged a foreign landmark.
Another ping.
Babe. BELLA. Did he say nyet while wrecking your soul?? I NEED TO KNOW IF I SHOULD ORDER US MATCHING “I SURVIVED THE RUSSIAN” TANK TOPS.
I laugh so hard I nearly drop the phone. My abs hurt. Or maybe it’s the fact I spent half the night tied up in a penthouse suite having the kind of sex that rewires your entire operating system.
I type:
Me: I’m still recovering. My spine isn’t where I left it. Give me a few hours and maybe a donut.
Me: Also, yes. He growled. Multiple times. You’d combust.
Three dots appear immediately. Then stop. Then appear again.
And I know I’ve just detonated her.
Good. Let her suffer. She left me alone with Natasha the Dress Warden and an orgasm-induced identity crisis. This is payback.
I toss the phone to the side, finally dragging the covers off my legs, ready to limp toward the shower and pretend I have a functioning spine. My feet barely hit the floor before my phone buzzes again.
I groan. “Elena, if you’ve found vending machine thongs, I swear—”
I glance at the screen.
It’s not her.
Konstantin.
No emoji. No punctuation. Just three words:
Konstantin: Dinner tonight with the family. 7 p.m.
That’s it. Nothing else. No context. No warning.
And somehow, it’s enough to make my entire body go still.
Because his family? That could mean anything. And suddenly, sore muscles and inappropriate lip gloss don’t seem like the biggest problem in the room.