12. Chapter 12
12
Bella
N atasha showed up right after the text from my husband—because apparently that’s what Konstantin is now—with all the subtlety of a couture SWAT team.
She didn’t ask if I was ready. She simply handed me an espresso and said, “Mr. Belov sends this ensemble for your first day as Director of Sales. Congratulations.”
As if this was routine. As if people gift silk slacks and power titles the way others hand out mints.
I blinked at the clothes. She blinked back. We both knew resistance was pointless.
Then came the once-over. Natasha’s eyes dragged down my robe-clad frame, pausing just long enough at my neck to make me acutely aware of the fading red mark there. Her expression doesn’t change, but I swear I can feel her cataloging it—like another line item on some private inventory list she keeps in that perfectly structured brain of hers.
“You’ll need a shower,” she says, tone clipped and final. “He prefers punctuality.”
I don’t ask who he is. I just walk.
The suite bathroom is gleaming, all marble and gold fixtures, the kind of space you don’t walk into without hearing an internal tax calculator scream. I peel off the robe and step into the steam-heavy air, only to pause—briefly—because the scent hits me first.
Him. He’s still here. Not physically but in the way his cologne clings to the air and to me. It’s buried in the sheets, in the towel I used, in the skin I’m now trying to scrub clean.
And still, I don’t reach for my own body wash. I use what’s there.
Not bad—just… wrong. Not me. The scent is expensive, citrusy and cold, like Amalfi Coast money and zero emotional availability. Probably Le Labo or something equally pretentious that comes in a frosted glass bottle with a minimalist label and a $300 price tag. I lather it on anyway. Because it’s already here. Because it’s easier than unpacking my own stuff. Because apparently, I wake up in penthouses now and shower in someone else’s life.
By the time I step into Elite Properties, I’ve already broken three personal records:
1. Waking up without anxiety-induced stomach knots.
2. Getting dressed without touching a single hanger.
3. Wearing actual designer heels without wanting to cry.
By the time I step into the new version of Elite Properties—Belov-ified, de-Sandra’d, and currently held together by coffee, trauma, and sheer denial—I’ve already been given three compliments, two curious stares, and one terrified whisper of “Is she the one he… you know… married?”
Yes. I am the one . The one who apparently went from foreclosure threats to couture office wear overnight. The one whose job promotion came sandwiched between legal doom and marital sex dreams. Living the American nightmare.
The office looks the same, technically, but it feels different—like it was quietly exorcised overnight. Sandra’s infamous desk chair is gone. Just… gone . Not moved. Not reassigned. Erased.
Replaced with an aggressively tasteful orchid.
And a very shiny, very smug MacBook that says “Director of Sales—Isabella Marquez” when I wake it up with the tap of a finger that I definitely didn’t get manicured just for this.
Jenna’s still at the front desk, but now she sits upright like she has spinal integrity and something to lose. She actually smiles when she sees me. Not the panicked, manic grimace from Doomsday Monday. A real smile.
“Morning, Director Marquez!” she chirps, like we didn’t both live through the workplace equivalent of an alien invasion.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “Do you get electroshocked when you forget to call me by my title now?”
She shrugs, typing something efficiently. “I get a bonus if I don’t screw up your schedule. Speaking of…”
Before I can ask what that even means, I hear the sound of low heels behind me—
I turn.
She’s maybe my age. Mid-thirties, neat blouse, clean lines, hair pulled back in a no-fuss bun that says she doesn’t have time to explain things twice. She holds out a tablet like it’s a legal summons.
“Here’s your day,” she says, without preamble.
I take it. “Cool. And you are…?”
She blinks once. “Leonie Mercer. I’ve been transferred from Belov Global Holdings. I’m your new secretary. I manage your calendar now.”
I blink at the tablet, then at her.
Her eyes are as neutral as a Fendi purse. No trace of warmth or emotion, just an efficient, laser-focused look that lets me know she’s here to do a job. Not make friends.
“Great. I didn’t realize I had an assistant.” I glance down at the iPad, my eyes moving over the series of meetings already neatly packed into it. “And I didn’t realize my new boss’s world included all this fancy… scheduling. ” I can’t help but let the sarcasm slip.
Leonid ignores me and hands me said iPad like it’s a royal decree.
I scan the schedule quickly, my real estate brain kicking in despite everything else. Meeting with regional managers, marketing brief, quarterly projections—I know this dance. Before Sandra was fired, I was her top performer, consistently leading the sales team. This is my world. The only thing that’s changed is the corner office and the last name now attached to mine.
“The regional managers are waiting in Conference Room B,” Leonie says, already pivoting toward the door. “They’re prepared to discuss the Henderson portfolio transition.”
I follow her, my heels clicking against marble that definitely wasn’t here last week. The Henderson portfolio—twelve luxury properties along the coast that I’ve had my eye on for months. Properties that Sandra claimed were “being negotiated.”
“Wait. We got Henderson?” I ask, quickening my pace to match Leonie’s efficiency.
She doesn’t turn around. “Mr. Belov negotiated the acquisition yesterday.”
Of course he did. In the same twenty-four hours that he married me and apparently conquered Elite Properties.
The conference room falls silent when I walk in. Six faces turn toward me—four men, two women, all wearing the same expression of cautious assessment. Mark is the only familiar face, and even he looks different, like someone replaced his usual rumpled Oxford with something that actually fits.
“Director Marquez,” he says, standing. The others follow suit. “We were just reviewing the Henderson properties.”
I slip into the chair at the head of the table, setting the iPad down. “Excellent. Let’s start with the beachfront listings. Those are our priority market, given the current buyer profile.”
For a moment, they all stare, clearly expecting the boss’s wife to fumble. I don’t.
Instead, I pull up the portfolio specs and begin dissecting price points, target demographics, and marketing strategy with the precision that made me the agency’s best performer. I know these properties. I know this market. And suddenly, the tension in my shoulders eases just a fraction.
This—this I can do.
The meeting flows, and I find myself leaning into the rhythm of numbers and strategy. The regional managers shift from wary to engaged as I outline a targeted approach for each property segment. By the time we reach the third property group, they’re no longer looking at me like I’m a curiosity—they’re looking at me like I’m someone who knows what the hell I’m talking about.
I take the moment of privacy to check my watch. It’s 4:10 already. The dinner with Konstantin’s “family” looms closer, and my stomach tightens at the thought. I roll my shoulders back, trying to maintain the confidence I just commanded in that meeting.
Leonie returns, tapping her watch with a precision that would make Swiss engineers jealous.
“Your 4:15 is ready. Marketing brief on the downtown gentrification project.”
I stand, grateful for the distraction. No time to worry about dinner with Russian powerbrokers when I have a $40 million downtown development to discuss.
The marketing team looks even more terrified than the regional managers did. I recognize their fear—it’s the same look everyone had when Sandra was on one of her tirades, threatening jobs over font choices.
“Let’s start with the target demographic analysis,” I say, settling into my role. “And I want honest assessments, not what you think I want to hear.”
Their surprise is visible. But so is their relief.
By 4:30, I’ve approved their strategy, suggested three amendments that actually made sense, and somehow managed to not think about my impending dinner for a full fifteen minutes.
When Leonie appears in the doorway, her expression is as unchanged as ever.
“Your car will be here in fifteen minutes, Mrs. Belov.”
The name hits me like cold water. Mrs. Belov. Not Ms. Marquez. Not Director. Mrs. Belov—like I’m an extension of him, a possession rather than a person. My spine stiffens automatically.
Reality crashes back. Dinner. Family. Konstantin.
“Thank you, Leonie.” I gather my things, trying to look like someone who regularly attends dinners with criminal enterprises. I refuse to let her see how that name—Mrs. Belov—still feels like someone else’s identity slipped onto my shoulders. “Can you tell me anything about tonight? Who will be there? What should I—?”
“Mr. Belov’s inner circle will be present. The invitation is considered an honor.” She pauses almost imperceptibly."You might want to get going. You have five minutes."
I blink, caught off guard by what almost sounds like actual advice.
The meeting room empties and I’m left alone with my reflection in the glass wall. Despite everything, I don’t look completely out of place in this costume of power and professionalism. The woman staring back at me managed three back-to-back meetings without flinching, commanded a room of experienced professionals, and didn’t once let them see her uncertainty.
Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can be Director Marquez by day and Mrs. Belov by night and somehow keep my soul intact.
I smooth a hand over the front of my blazer, catching a stray fleck of mascara under my eye. The woman in the reflection transforms again, something fierce emerging in her eyes.
My phone pings with a message from the building security. The car is waiting.
Into the lion’s den, then.