22. Chapter 22
22
Bella
O f course, Konstantin doesn’t warn me we’re meeting the infamous father this morning. That would be too easy. No, he just waits until I’ve had exactly three sips of lukewarm coffee before informing me with the same casual menace someone might use to announce a tax audit.
The kids are already scrambling, grabbing backpacks and water bottles. Each one stops to give their father two precise kisses—left cheek, right cheek—like tiny soldiers reporting for duty.
“Goodbye, Papa,” they chorus before their nannies herd them toward the door.
“We’re going upstairs,” Konstantin announces once they’re gone. “There’s someone you must meet.”
Upstairs? Someone? My brain stutters. We have people hidden upstairs?
I set my cup down, ignoring the way my stomach tightens. Honestly, this doesn’t sound like a mating call—which, let’s be real, I’ve been low-key hoping for since that garden moment. But he looks serious. And seriously hot this early in the morning.
He’s wearing a crisp white shirt with the top two buttons undone, giving me just enough of a glimpse of chest to make concentrating difficult. A hint of dark chest hair peeks out from the V of fabric.
When I look up, he’s staring at me staring at him.
Busted.
“Who… are we meeting?” I mumble. “This is a little early, and it’s not even in my schedule…”
Before I can continue, he’s already beside me, pulling out my chair with unexpected courtesy. Oh, how gentlemanly of him—when he’s about to drag me to some mystery meeting.
From the kitchen, we walk silently, passing the garden, the infinity pool, and what feels like thirty identical closed doors. Finally, we approach a private elevator guarded by two men who straighten like rulers when they spot Konstantin.
“Sir.” They nod in unison, one pressing the call button without being asked.
The elevator arrives with a soft chime, its interior gleaming with wood paneling and brass fixtures. Konstantin guides me inside, his hand on the small of my back again.
“Whatever happens later,” he says as the doors close, “just keep quiet.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Can you at least tell me who the hell we’re meeting?”
“My father.”
Ding. The elevator arrives at a floor labeled “бoльница.”
I squint at the Cyrillic letters. “What does that—?”
“Hospital,” Konstantin says simply.
I’ve seen plenty of intimidating places in my life. The principal’s office in eighth grade when I accidentally set off the fire alarm. My first job interview where I spilled coffee on the hiring manager. The DMV on a Monday morning.
But this? This hospital room masquerading as a five-star hotel suite? This wins the prize for Most Likely to Make My Knees Involuntarily Wobble.
“Stop fidgeting,” Konstantin murmurs, his hand pressing lightly against my back as we stand outside his father’s door. His touch shouldn’t be comforting. It really shouldn’t. And yet.
“I’m not fidgeting,” I whisper back while absolutely fidgeting. “I’m just… recalibrating my molecular structure to better withstand whatever horror show awaits us behind door number one.”
His eyes flick to mine, that mercurial gray catching the light. For a second—just a millisecond, really—I swear I see his mouth twitch. Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of amusement haunting his face before vanishing without a trace.
“He’s not a monster,” Konstantin says, his voice low. “He’s just a man.”
I swallow hard as he pushes open the door. The room beyond is a collision of luxury and medical necessity—like someone decided to build a presidential suite around a hospital bed.
This time, his mouth definitely twitches.
“You’ll survive.”
“Will I, though? Because your mother looked at me like I was something she found stuck to her designer heel, and she’s supposedly the nice parent.”
Konstantin’s jaw tightens. “My mother is… complicated.”
“Complicated like a Rubik’s cube, or complicated like a bomb that might detonate if I breathe wrong?”
“The second one,” he admits, and I appreciate the honesty, even as it sends my anxiety into orbit.
A hawk-faced man in an expensive suit approaches, clutching a leather portfolio like it contains nuclear launch codes. His eyes, cold and calculating, slide over me with the enthusiasm of someone inspecting gas station sushi.
“Mr. Belov,” he says, nodding to Konstantin. “I see you’ve brought… her.”
Wow.
The way he says “her” makes it sound like Konstantin dragged in a half-dead raccoon he found on the highway.
“Boris,” Konstantin replies, voice glacial. “This is my wife, Isabella Marquez-Belov.”
The Marquez-Belov addition surprises me enough that I almost miss the insult in Boris’s thin-lipped smile.
“Of course,” Boris murmurs.
Konstantin’s hand presses harder against my back. Warning or reassurance, I can’t tell.
“Is the doctor with him?” Konstantin asks.
“Dr. Gurinov just finished his examination,” Boris confirms. “The Pakhan is… alert today.”
The pause before “alert” carries enough weight to sink a battleship.
Boris pushes open the double doors without another word, and we follow him into what feels suspiciously like the jaws of a very well-appointed trap.
The room beyond is massive—more luxury penthouse than hospital room. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the estate gardens, while medical equipment lurks discreetly in corners, trying to blend in with the opulent furniture like embarrassed party guests.
And there, propped up against pillows in a vast, ornate bed, sits the man himself. The Pakhan .
My first thought is that he looks nothing like a man who just woke up from a six-month coma. My second thought is that he looks exactly like what would happen if you carved a man from granite and then taught him how to hate.
His face is weathered but still handsome in that severe, aristocratic way that seems to run in the Belov bloodline. Steel-gray hair, thick eyebrows, and eyes so piercing they could probably see through walls. Or into souls. Definitely my soul, which feels suddenly very exposed and underdressed for the occasion.
Next to the bed stands another man—shorter, with gentle hands and kind eyes that seem wildly out of place in this room. Dr. Gurinov, I assume.
“Father,” Konstantin says with a formal nod. “This is Isabella, my wife.” Then to me, “Isabella, this is my father, Anatoly Belov.”
The introduction seems strangely normal for such an abnormal situation, like we’re at a dinner party instead of a hospital room masquerading as a royal chamber.
“Konstantin,” Anatoly says, his voice surprisingly strong. Not the raspy whisper of a recovering patient but the commanding tone of a general addressing a disappointing lieutenant. “You’re late.”
“Traffic,” Konstantin lies smoothly.
There was no traffic. We only came from downstairs, though Konstantin did pause in the hallway to check his phone twice, his jaw tightening each time. I didn’t ask. Some questions in this house come with answers I’m not ready to hear.
Anatoly’s gaze slides to me, and I resist the urge to check if I’m turning to stone. “So this is the wife.”
Not “your wife.” Not “Isabella.” Just “the wife.” Like I’m a checkbox on a form he’s reluctantly initialing.
“Isabella,” Konstantin confirms. “We were married last week.”
“I know when you were married,” the older man snaps. “I may have been unconscious, but I wasn’t dead.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at the absurdity of that statement. Laughing feels dangerous, like lighting a match in a room full of dynamite.
“Mr. Belov.” I step forward, extending my hand before I can think better of it. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
The room goes so quiet I can hear the steady beep of the heart monitor hidden behind a silk screen. Boris makes a small choking sound like he’s swallowed his tongue. Even the doctor freezes mid-note.
The Pakhan stares at my outstretched hand like I’ve offered him a dead fish. Then, miraculously, he takes it. His grip is firm but trembling slightly—the only sign of his physical weakness.
“American,” he says, making it sound like a medical diagnosis. “Bold. Undisciplined. Tell me, girl, what do you know about our family?”
“Not much,” I admit, and if my voice trembles, let’s all agree to pretend it’s just an early morning vocal warm-up.
He releases my hand, dismissing me as easily as swatting away a fly. Just like that, I cease to exist. I’m background noise, female wallpaper in a room where men make decisions. It should bother me more than it does, but right now, invisibility feels like a superpower.
I take a small step back, suddenly fascinated by the precise arrangement of medical equipment behind the ornate silk screen.
“You look better,” Konstantin says, switching to business mode. His voice is different when he speaks to his father—harder, colder.
“Don’t patronize me,” Anatoly replies. “I know why you’re here.”
Konstantin’s jaw tightens. “I fulfilled your conditions.”
“Yes,” Anatoly says, his eyes flicking to me briefly before dismissing me entirely. “You found a wife. Congratulations.”
The way he says it makes it clear that congratulations are the last thing on his mind.
Anatoly shifts, wincing slightly as he adjusts his position against the pillows. “You’ve always been stubborn. Like your mother.”
The temperature in the room plummets. Even the beeping monitor seems to quiet down in respect for whatever nerve Anatoly just struck.
Anatoly’s eyes flick to me, studying me like I’m a disappointing investment. His gaze is clinical, assessing, and clearly finding me lacking.
“This is your choice?” he asks Konstantin, not bothering to hide his disapproval. “This is who you selected to fulfill the requirement?”
Konstantin’s posture stiffens. “I made my choice.”
Anatoly shakes his head slowly. “I expected someone more… suitable for our world.”
“The will didn’t specify qualifications,” Konstantin replies, his voice dropping dangerously. “Just marriage. Legal and binding. Those were your exact words.”
“Technicalities,” Anatoly mutters.
“Your technicalities,” Konstantin counters. “Your will. Your conditions.”
Their voices rise, sharp syllables cutting across each other as they switch to Russian. I catch words that sound like “contract” and “promise,” but the rest is lost to me. Then Anatoly slams his hand down on the bed.
“Enough!” he switches back to English. “What’s done is done. You’re married. The will is satisfied.”
Wait. What?
“You promised,” Konstantin says, voice deadly quiet. “If I married, I would be Pakhan . No challenges, no questions.”
And there it is. The reason I’m here. The reason for our hasty wedding, the contract, all of it.
I’m not a wife. I’m a stipulation.
My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. I should be angry—I am angry—but mostly, I’m… fascinated. It’s like watching the climax of a movie I didn’t know I was starring in.
“And you will be,” Anatoly assures him, though his eyes linger on me with obvious doubt. “Though this choice of yours makes me question your judgment.”
Konstantin’s jaw tightens. “I fulfilled the requirement. The choice was mine to make.”
“Yes,” Anatoly says, looking again at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve. “Your choice. Your… wife.”
“The council meeting,” Konstantin redirects. “I need your support. Formally.”
“You have it,” Anatoly says simply. “You’re my son. My heir. My blood.”
The words sound rehearsed, like he’s said them before—maybe many times—but there’s something hollow about them. Like reciting lines from a play you’ve performed too many times to feel anymore.
Konstantin doesn’t react, but I see it—a tiny muscle in his jaw twitching, a tell I’m starting to recognize. He wanted something more from those words. Needed something more.
“I upheld my end,” Konstantin says quietly. “I expect you to uphold yours.”
For a moment, father and son stare at each other, and I glimpse something painful and unresolved stretching between them like a live wire.
“I keep my promises,” he says, smooth as glass. “In my own time.”
His eyes flick to me—sideways, calculating.
And just like that, I get it.
This house isn’t built on trust. It’s built on debts. Promises twisted into weapons.
And if you’re smart, you never believe anyone when they say soon .