20. Chapter 20
20
Bella
T here’s a special kind of cruelty in waking up to your own alarm. Not because you set it. Not because it works. But because it has the audacity to function perfectly when you’re in the middle of mentally stabbing your husband in your dreams.
The obnoxious jingle of my phone buzzes me straight out of sleep at exactly 6:30 a.m. Sharp. Military precision. Of course it does. I should’ve just set it to “Mock Me Mercilessly” at this point.
I groan and blindly slap at the screen like I’m trying to murder a mosquito.
“Shut up, you traitorous rectangle,” I mutter, finally silencing it.
For a second, I lie there, disoriented and still tangled in a blanket that feels like it belongs in a five-star hotel spa brochure. And then it hits me.
Oh, right. I’m still here. In this room. In Konstantin Belov’s absurd, criminally luxurious estate that looks like a billionaire’s Pinterest board threw up on it.
I drag my eyes open. Honestly? It’s stupid how beautiful this place looks, even at this ungodly hour.
The first hints of morning light are seeping through the windows, casting a silvery-blue glow across the pale floors, like water just before the sun really catches it.
The cream drapes, drawn halfway open, ripple softly in the breeze. My bed—or rather, my marriage contract bed—is carved out of dark oak, layered in linens so soft I could probably sell one pillow and pay off my car. Correction: my former car. Betsy is dead; may she rest in patchy, red-peeling peace.
Konstantin’s view might have the ocean and cliffs of Big Sur, but this room? This room feels like it was designed to seduce sleep itself. A bitter laugh bubbles up. And to think I went to bed last night full of righteous fury, vowing to build an emotional wall so high and thick it could qualify as a historical landmark.
No emotions, Bella. Not anymore.
Not with him. Not after what he said. I squeeze my eyes shut, the echo of his words still scraping at the inside of my skull. I remind myself—firmly—that Konstantin Belov is not my safe place. He never was. He never will be.
But my throat tightens anyway. Because this is the time—back home, right about now—I’d be stumbling into the kitchen to make breakfast for Julian and Lila. Julian would already be up, scrolling through his phone and pretending not to stress about whatever test he had that day. Lila? Lila would still be a burrito in her blankets, requiring a full rescue operation to get her out of bed.
My chest pinches. I reach blindly for my phone, like a lifeline, and shoot off a text to our sibling group chat.
ME: Morning, chaos monsters. Reporting live from… a weird new habitat. How’s the home front holding up?
ME: Julian, good luck with your test. Lila, wake up and pretend to be a human.
ME: Miss you both more than my sanity.
Julian answers fast, because of course he does. My reliable early bird.
JULIAN: Roommate’s hogging the bathroom. Test at 10. Could be worse. Could be algebra.
I smile, but it pinches at the edges. My fingers hover over the screen before I tap out:
ME: Let’s try to do a call this weekend? I’ll figure something out. Love you both.
For a moment, I stare at the screen, chewing my bottom lip.
Lila pops up next. Her message is a punch straight to the gut:
LILA: Where are you, by the way? You sound like you’re on vacation or something.
There it is. A sharp spike of guilt knifes through my ribs because out of the two of them, it’s Lila who doesn’t know anything. Julian—well, Julian suspects more than he lets on. He’s too mature for his age, my calm in every storm. He’s giving me space, waiting until I’m ready to explain the whole mess. But Lila? She’s still a kid, and I’ve kept her in the dark, telling myself I’m protecting her. Lying to myself, mostly. Because the truth is, I don’t even know how to explain this. “Surprise! I accidentally married a mafia kingpin to save our house!” isn’t exactly something you drop between breakfast and first period.
I type and erase three different replies before settling on:
ME: Somewhere weird but safe. Promise. I’ll tell you soon.
I hesitate, then add a little white lie:
ME: Long story. Homework first, interrogation later. [grimace face]
It’s my fake-casual, like, “Hehe, everything’s fine even though it’s totally not.”
She doesn’t reply right away, which somehow makes it worse. My chest tightens. Because the truth is, I don’t know if I can just video call them whenever I want. I don’t even know the full list of rules in this place yet. Mental note: Add it to the growing list of things I need to negotiate with Konstantin. Right after “stop falling asleep angry” and “stop imagining murder at sunrise.”
A knock startles me, snapping me out of my spiral. Gentle, hesitant. “Mrs. Belov?”
I freeze. That’s still strange to hear. Like she’s talking to someone else.
“Are… are you wake up?” The voice is careful, uncertain—like the words are foreign, picked one by one from a phrasebook.
I wipe at my face fast, catching the stray tears before they betray me further.
“Yeah,” I croak, then clear my throat. “Yes. Come in.”
The door creaks open, and Anya steps inside, her eyes cast down. I’m struck again by how young she is. She’s maybe twenty, tops. Blonde hair braided tight. Her uniform looks like it’s been starched within an inch of its life.
“I have prepared your bath, Mrs. Belov,” she says, voice soft and dutiful. “And your clothes.”
I blink. “You… you ran me a bath?”
She nods like this is normal. Like it’s not completely bizarre that someone filled a clawfoot tub with steaming water and actual rose petals at the crack of dawn for a girl who still feels like she fell headfirst into a mafia fairy tale from hell.
“Of course,” she replies, glancing toward the marble bathroom like it’s part of the morning routine. Wake up. Brush teeth. Bath with roses. Casual.
I stare at the tub. There’s literal steam curling off the surface, and the petals look freshly plucked.
What is this? Bridgerton?
I mutter under my breath, “If you say you also have a team of woodland creatures ironing my sheets, I’m calling animal services.”
She doesn’t react, probably too polite or too trained to acknowledge my sarcasm.
“Where are you from, Anya?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
Her gaze dips lower. “Eastern Europe.”
I press, gentler this time, “Do you have family back home?”
“I am trained not to speak too much, Mrs. Belov.” Her words are polite, but there’s an invisible wall between us. “Just maid.”
The way she says it—like she’s not even a person—makes my chest ache. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Well,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice, “thank you, Anya. For the bath. And the, uh, outfit. Though, fair warning, I may need help figuring out how to get into it. I’m used to sweatpants.”
A flicker of something passes over her face—not quite a smile, but close. Then, silently, she retreats to the wardrobe, laying out the dress like it’s made of spun gold.
Before I can process the next absurdity of my morning, the door slams open.
Two small hurricanes tumble in, breathless with energy. Lev and Alya.
Lev points at me with glee, his grin bright and victorious.
“See! I told you she’s still here!”
Alya’s face lights up for a split second, like someone flicked a switch inside her. She doesn’t run. No, she walks in slowly, the way kids do when they’re just playing it cool, but you know they’re secretly buzzing with excitement.
She’s clutching a soft, cream-colored teddy bear, the kind that’s seen years of love but still holds its shape. The fur is slightly matted in places, the seams a little looser, but it’s been carefully kept—clean, fluffed, and probably hand-washed by someone whose job it is to maintain bear perfection. The little satin bow at its neck is tied in a neat, slightly frayed knot, a hint that this bear has been loved hard and held close. Somehow, that well-worn bear in her arms feels more surreal than the marble floors and rose petal baths. Of course, even the bear is perfect in its own way. Everything in this house is.She’s wearing a tiny navy pinafore dress with white tights and shiny black shoes that look like they’ve been polished to military standards. There’s even a little white blouse under the dress, complete with a Peter Pan collar. I blink at her.
I’m still tangled in the comforter, not even fully upright yet, looking like I wrestled with my pillow and lost, while this child is dressed like she’s about to accept a Nobel Prize.
Alya surveys the room like she’s inspecting her future kingdom, her eyes shining.
“You’re coming to school with me today,” she announces proudly, hugging her bear closer.
I squint at her, still half-asleep. “I’m what now?”
“You’re driving me,” she says, as if this is common knowledge, as if we’ve had a full board meeting about it and I just missed the memo. “Papa said so.”
Papa? My eyes flick to Lev, who just grins like he’s watching the best show on earth. I follow Alya’s line of sight toward the door, where Konstantin decides to make his grand appearance.
Of course he does.
My pulse stutters. There he is, perfectly put together in a dark suit and crisp white shirt, like it’s not even slightly offensive to look that good at this ungodly hour. Meanwhile, I probably have pillow lines stamped across my cheek and hair that’s doing its best impression of a bird’s nest.
My hand flies to my hair instinctively, trying to smooth it down while pretending I’m not.
Play it cool, Bella.
Too late, he saw you panic.
His gaze drops to mine, flicking over the disarray of my morning disaster look, and I swear there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like amusement in the form of a private joke he’s not ready to share yet.
I clear my throat, aiming for dignity and failing miserably.
“Are you kidding me?” I mutter under my breath, tugging at the blanket to cover myself more.
His eyes linger just a heartbeat longer than they should. And then—
He steps fully into the room.