18. Chapter 18
18
Bella
I don’t even wait for the last dish to be cleared. I make my exit from the table with a casual grace that is absolutely faked. If anyone here thinks I’m composed, I deserve an Oscar.
My chest is tight, like I’ve been holding my breath since the moment Konstantin’s mother walked in. Maybe I have been.
Sun is setting, casting a honeyed glow over the estate. It’s ridiculous how beautiful this place is, like it’s daring me to relax.
The garden kitchen sprawls out like a hidden retreat—lush and green, a world away from the steel and marble of the main house. A long wooden table stretches under a pergola wrapped in jasmine vines, their sweet scent mingling with the fresh, earthy aroma of basil and thyme. Planters burst with herbs, vegetables, and a riot of flowers, a miniature Eden that feels more secret garden than estate.
Somehow, it’s quiet out here. No clattering dishes. No piercing looks from Konstantin’s mother. No child prodigies casually discussing tactical assessments like they’re planning an 8-year-old coup.
Just peace.
Until I hear the children.
“Careful, Lev! You’re squashing the raspberries!” Alya scolds from somewhere behind the herb wall.
“Not my fault they’re soft,” Lev fires back, his voice full of dramatic offense.
I step closer to the stone counter, resting my palms on the cool surface, peeking around the edge.
There they are—half-hidden behind the rosemary and thyme—Lev, Alya, and Nikolai picking fruits from the sprawling garden beds like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Konstantin is there, too.
Not watching. Participating.
He crouches beside Alya, plucking a fat blackberry and inspecting it like it’s a jewel. He offers it to her, and she beams.
“Always the darkest ones,” he says, low and sure. “They hold the most sweetness.”
She nods like he’s imparted some ancient wisdom, popping the berry into her mouth.
My chest tightens again, but for a different reason this time.
Because… damn it. He’s a good father.
No. Scratch that. He’s a great father. The kind of father you see in feel-good commercials, the kind I never expected from a man who discusses obstacle courses over dinner like it’s perfectly natural.
“Papa,” Nikolai says, standing ramrod straight like a soldier, “permission to retrieve more figs?”
I bite back a laugh. It comes out as a strangled little noise in my throat.
Konstantin glances over his shoulder, catching me watching him.
And there it is—that heat.
Subtle, smoldering, unmistakable.
“Permission granted,” he says, but his eyes are all on me now as if I’m the next prize he plans to pluck from the vine.
The children scatter off toward the fig tree, giving us an accidental moment alone. Or maybe it’s not accidental. Maybe they’re just smart enough to know when to give their father space.
I linger by the counter, running my fingers over a bowl of glistening blackberries.
“Your children speak to you like you’re a general commanding an army.”
“They are soldiers,” he replies, strolling toward me, his presence eating up the distance like fire consumes air. “They just happen to share my blood.”
“And they love you,” I add before I can stop myself. “That’s… surprising.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile but something just as dangerous.
“You think men like me can’t be loved?”
“I think men like you don’t expect to be,” I shoot back.
He studies me for a beat, the weight of his gaze pinning me in place.
“I don’t expect anything, moya zhena . I demand it.”
A shiver rolls down my spine. Not fear. Not quite desire. It’s something murkier, something that coils in my stomach and spreads heat through my chest.
Before I can reply, there’s a sharp crash from the indoor kitchen. A plate, maybe two, hitting the floor.
The maid—Anya, poor thing—appears frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide and horrified.
Not a single muscle betrays Konstantin’s thoughts. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t bark orders like I’d expect from a man carved from ice and control.
Instead, he calls Oleg over with a flick of his fingers.
“Train her properly,” he says, calm as ever. “I do not punish inexperience. Only negligence.”
The girl stumbles back, relief written all over her face.
I watch her retreat, then look at him. “That’s… unexpectedly merciful.”
“Mercy is not weakness,” he answers simply. “But standards must remain.”
God, Elena is going to die when I tell her this. She’ll think I’m living in some mafia fever dream. Maybe I am. But it’s strangely not the nightmare I thought it’d be.
Not when he looks at me like that.
Not when the sky deepens to ink-blue and the lanterns around the garden flicker, casting everything in a soft, golden haze.
“Walk with me,” he says, offering his hand.
I hesitate. Only for a second.
Then I slip my fingers into his palm, letting him lead me away from the kitchen, away from the children’s quiet laughter as they chase fireflies under the cypress trees.
The path winds past the pool, where the water shimmers like black glass, and further into the shadowed parts of the garden, where the lantern light fades, and the air feels thick with something heavier than mist.
He stops beneath an arch of climbing roses, their scent heady and wild.
“Isabella,” he murmurs, my name rough in his mouth.
I swear the whole night shifts around us.
“Please, just… Bella,” I blurt, too fast. “That’s what everyone close to me calls me, you know, except my kindergarten teacher and maybe the IRS, but they don’t count. Actually, they definitely don’t count.”
I know I should shut the hell up now, so I bite my lip to silence myself.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he brushes his thumb across my lower lip. The touch is feather-light, but it short-circuits my brain entirely. My pulse trips over itself.
His eyes—God, his eyes. mercurial and electric, like storm clouds laced with lightning, and they’re looking at me like I’m both the storm and the fool who dared to dance in the rain.
“Tell me,” he says, his thumb now tracing the inside of my wrist, sending sparks up my arm, “did dinner meet your expectations?”
“Honestly?” I breathe, my voice all wrong. “It exceeded them.”
“Good,” he says, a low promise that curls heat between my ribs. “Because dessert is still to come.”
And just like that, I forget every reason I had to resist him.
“Do the kids…?” I say suddenly, then immediately regret it as the words slip out of my mouth. “Do they… call me Mommy now? Or is there a mafia probation period?”
His brow arcs so high it could launch into orbit. He gives me a look that is a devastating blend of amusement and sharp, dangerous warning.
“No,” he says, each syllable precise as a blade. “You are not their mother, Bella. Do not mistake this arrangement for what it is not. You are not my real wife. This is not your family.”
The words hit like a lash across my chest. Whatever warmth existed between us a moment ago freezes solid, brittle enough to shatter.
But he doesn’t look away.
If anything, he pins me there with his stare, as if he means to make the words sink deeper.
I try to breathe past the tightness coiling in my throat, but his gaze holds me captive. Heavy. Unflinching. I can’t think, can’t even gather a clever reply. All I manage is a small, shaky nod.
His eyes darken, as though that isn’t enough.
Konstantin steps closer—a single, deliberate step that eats up the space between us—and tilts his head, studying me like a man studying a flaw in his favorite weapon.
“Say it,” he commands, quiet but unrelenting.
My pulse stutters. Heat prickles beneath my skin, even as the chill of his words lingers in my chest.
I know what he wants.
“I…” My tongue feels too thick. I swallow hard. “I’m not their mother.”
His gaze sharpens, satisfied. He takes another beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to scorch my pride.
“Good,” he says at last, stepping back a little. “Now that this is settled, we can enjoy dessert.”
Before I can untangle the knot in my chest, Alya appears at my side, her arms full of fruit.
“Bella,” she chirps, oblivious to the tension hanging in the air. “Do you want to taste the fruits we picked? Papa says the darkest ones are the sweetest!”
I blink, forcing my face into something resembling normal as I accept a blackberry from her tiny, proud hands.
“Of course,” I say, my voice brighter than I feel. I bite into the berry—it’s lush and sweet, the juice staining my tongue like wine.
Konstantin watches me, his expression unreadable now. Cold, distant, the softness from before locked away behind iron walls.
Don’t be stupid , I remind myself, swallowing the fruit along with my foolishness. Whatever I thought this could be? It’s not.