14. Chapter 14
14
Bella
S o, I took a wrong turn and ended up in his room.
I didn’t mean to. I was just checking things out—getting a sense of the layout, the rhythm of this ridiculous mansion built on glass and testosterone. And maybe, yes, I was looking for the room with the best view. Sue me.
I knew we weren’t sleeping in the same room. And I was relieved.
Mostly.
Maybe.
Okay, fine. There’s a part of me, the quietly unhinged part I try not to feed after midnight, that wanted to know what it would be like to sleep next to someone like him . Someone who looks like sin and smells like violence and owns a bedroom that could double as a Bond villain’s prayer closet.
But then Smalls happened.
That tiny voice in the doorway. The perfectly timed: “Did you get lost?” And then the fatal blow: “I can show you where your room is. It’s not this one.”
Delivered with all the politeness of a hit job.
Now, I’m walking beside her, dripping in awkward tension and a luxury robe, while she leads me like a hotel concierge with a personal grudge.
“This way,” she says, not bothering to look back and check if I’m following.
Of course I’m following.
What else would I do? Run back to the half-naked Russian crime boss whose bedroom I accidentally invaded?
The image of Konstantin standing there—towel slung low, water droplets still clinging to the tattoos that snake across his chest—flashes through my mind uninvited.
I shove it away. Hard.
I don’t need that in my brain. I need clean thoughts. Quiet thoughts. Tax return thoughts.
Instead, I get a second dose of silent judgment from the child beside me. She doesn’t speak much. Doesn’t have to.
The look she gave me back there was surgical . No screaming, no tantrum, no “You’re not my mom!” meltdown. Just calm, icy… and pointed.
That wasn’t a little girl confused about bedroom layouts. That was a tiny executioner letting me know I’d trespassed somewhere sacred.
And not just because it was his room.
Because it was hers, too. Her territory. Her rules. Her father.
I recognize the emotion in her face. Not anger. Not fear.
Jealousy.
The kind that creeps in quietly and builds a fortress around itself. I know it because I’ve felt it. When the people you love the most give pieces of themselves to someone new—someone who hasn’t earned it.
And now here I am, walking beside the 8-year-old version of my past in a hallway full of art I can’t name, dripping shower water onto dark hardwood, trying not to slip on my own regret.
She opens the door to my room like a security escort making sure I don’t stray again. Doesn’t say anything. Just gestures. Like: “this is where you belong, stranger.”
I step inside.
The space is the same—still perfect, still eerie, still soft in all the ways I don’t trust—but I see it a little differently now. A little more like a gift I didn’t ask for and a little less like a threat.
I head straight for the closet.
“I’ll be quick,” I promise over my shoulder. “I didn’t mean to make us late.”
Alya’s voice drifts in like air conditioning. “We’re never late.”
Of course you aren’t.
I open the wardrobe, trying to focus. My robe slips as I reach for the blouse Anya had left hanging earlier—a cream silk thing that probably could buy me seven months of groceries. I tug it off the hanger and pull it on fast, fighting with the sleeves like it personally betrayed me.
“I wasn’t trying to be in his room,” I say, not sure why I’m even defending myself to someone under 10. “I was just… looking around.”
“Papa doesn’t look around,” Alya says from the chair like a tiny informant. “He moves with purpose. That’s what he says.”
I mumble something that sounds like “neat for him” and start fastening the top buttons of my blouse.
“You don’t have to sit there, you know.”
“I’m managing your time.”
Oh, Jesus Christ.
I yank the trousers off the hook and step into them like I’m speed-changing backstage at Fashion Week. My left leg almost gets stuck, and I nearly faceplant onto the floor, but I recover with the grace of someone used to humiliating herself in front of high-powered men and their terrifying children.
Then— a knock.
Soft.
The door opens before I can answer.
Anya.
Still pale. Still looks like she’s been internally screaming for the past thirty minutes.
“I—I came to see if you needed anything else,” she says in a voice that’s already apologizing for its existence.
Alya straightens.
“Your mistake sent her to the wrong room,” she states, not mean, just accurate. Like she’s filling out a report.
Anya flinches. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“She’s already dressed now, but it could’ve caused delay. And confusion. And Papa doesn’t like either.”
I see it then—Anya’s hands trembling just slightly as she clasps them in front of her apron. Like she’s waiting for a verdict she already fears.
I step in fast, voice firm. “Hey. That’s enough.”
Alya looks up—and for the first time, she actually looks surprised. Her eyes widen just a fraction, like she wasn’t expecting anyone to interrupt her. Not like that. Not calmly. Not like a grown-up.
No sharp scolding. No bribes. No one rushing to appease her or avoid the fallout. Just someone saying, plainly, that’s enough.
And judging by the way she blinks—like her internal script just got shredded—I don’t think she hears that often.
I step in front of the mirror, tucking my blouse, but I glance at her reflection behind me.
She’s still watching me. Still processing. Like she doesn’t know what to do with someone who talks to her like she’s just a kid—not a ticking bomb in patent shoes.
I sigh quietly and turn, walking toward her. Slow. Steady. Like I’ve done this before. Because I have.
Alya straightens a little in the chair but doesn’t move.
I stop a few feet in front of her. I don’t crouch—I don’t want to talk down to her. I want her to hear me. Fully.
“Anya made a mistake. That doesn’t mean she’s bad at her job. It means she’s human.”
Alya holds herself still, spine stiff, like she’s trying to memorize it.
“And you know what strong people do?” I continue. “They don’t punish someone the second they slip up. They give them a chance to do better. Because that’s what we all need sometimes. Grace.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Alya looks at Anya. “Do better.”
Anya nods so fast she might get whiplash. “Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.”
She disappears like she’s afraid if she lingers, she’ll be handed a sword and told to duel for her position.
I finally finish dressing and pull my hair into a twist, catching my breath.
Alya still hasn’t moved.
She’s watching me. Not with hate. But with… calculation. Curiosity. Like she’s trying to recalibrate what I am now that I’ve spoken up.
“I meant what I said,” I tell her gently. “About people messing up. Including me.”
“I know.”
Her voice is smaller this time.
She stands and heads for the door, pauses.
“I still don’t like you.”
Fair.
But what she says next hits differently.
“But I don’t want you to be scared here, either.”
Scared?
The word lands sideways in my chest. Not because she’s wrong—but because it means she noticed . Noticed the tension in my shoulders. The way I flinched when she raised her voice. The way I braced for impact when I stepped into a house I don’t belong in.
It means this kid—this sharp, unreadable little human who clearly doesn’t trust me—still doesn’t want me to feel unsafe.
And that? That’s not just something she’s heard. That’s something she’s learned.
From what , I’m not sure. But I want to know.
And then she’s gone.
And I just stand there, stunned, clutching the hem of my blouse like I need something to hang onto.
Then—
A knock.
Not soft this time.
Heavier. Purposeful.
The voice that follows is laced with steel.
“Isabella.”
My stomach drops.
Because that tone?
That’s not the one he used in bedroom.
Or the hallway.
That’s the one that says: I heard something I wasn’t meant to.
And I’m about to find out exactly what he thinks it means.