24. Chapter 24
24
Konstantin
I sit at the head of the conference table, legs stretched out, cufflinks glinting in the light. Timur stands to my left, arms folded, posture like a mountain ready to crush whatever dares approach. Arseny lounges in a leather chair opposite me, ankle crossed over his knee, fingers tapping against a sleek tablet displaying project schematics.
“The dockyard purchase cleared,” Arseny is saying, flipping to the next screen without looking up. “Clean papers, offshore routing. We can move the shipments under the furniture front. Customs won’t see a damn thing.”
“The furniture store,” Timur rumbles, like the words themselves taste bitter. “Isn’t that what we used for the Dubrovnik run?”
“Exactly.” Arseny’s lips tighten with something resembling satisfaction. “No one will look twice. We already paid Customs enough to pretend they’re blind.”
I nod absently, but my attention slides traitorously toward the glass wall that overlooks the adjacent office space.
Her office.
A glass enclosure, pristine and too exposed. I should’ve thought of that. Should’ve had them frost the glass or wall it off entirely. Instead, I watch her like a starving man watches flame over raw meat.
Bella moves through the room like she owns it, oblivious to the pulse she ignites under my skin. She’s on the phone, holding it between her shoulder and ear, her head tilted in concentration. Waves of dark hair tumble forward, framing her face as she scribbles notes in sharp, practiced strokes.
Her brows knit together, lips parted slightly as she switches the phone to her hand, tucking her hair back behind her ear. Her eyes flick up. And find mine.
A spark. No—a jolt. Her gaze falters, eyelashes fluttering just for a second, and then her lips press together, trying to hide the way they curve at the edges. It’s a moment, brief and sharp as a razor’s kiss, but it detonates low in my stomach.
My office was never meant for this chaos.
Minimal. Controlled. The fewer people, the better. But now?
Now, there’s a whole ecosystem growing on my floor.
Jenna, Bella’s receptionist, sits at the front like she’s running a mom-and-pop hardware store instead of the front desk of a multi-billion-dollar empire. She’s typing fast, brows furrowed, and chewing the end of her pen like she’s calculating discounts for bulk fertilizer.
And then there’s Leonie—imported straight from Belov HQ. Sharp French precision, hair knotted in a severe bun, her skirt pencil-tight. Efficient. Predictable. Corporate elegance incarnate. She runs schedules like battlefield logistics, but even she glances—barely, but enough—when Bella crosses the floor.
I’m about to respond to Timur when Bella emerges from the glass doors of Elite Properties. Even from here, the confident swing of her hips is unmistakable. She’s wearing something dark and fitted, her hair loose down her back. Professional but striking.
Every guard in the lobby turns to look at her. One—young, with a face I’ve never bothered to memorize—actually pivots his entire body to watch her walk to the coffee station.
“Fire him,” I say, cutting Arseny off mid-sentence.
Timur straightens, sensing the shift in my attention. “The man running the furniture front?” he clarifies, brow tightening.
“No. That one.” I nod toward the guard. “The one staring at my wife. Fire him.”
Timur follows my gaze, then exchanges a look with Arseny that makes my jaw tighten.
“Something amusing?” I ask, my voice dropping to a register that usually precedes violence.
Arseny, the only man in my organization with the balls to smile in the face of my anger, actually chuckles.
“Extremely.”
“ Yobany v rot ,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair.
Arseny taps the side of his temple with the stylus.
“You moved her into the lion’s den, Konstantin. Built her an office out of glass, and then act surprised when men look at her like she’s the sun itself. Perhaps next, you will build her a throne? Velvet cushions? Silk drapes?”
My eyes cut to him. “Don’t assume you know what I want, brat .”
“I’m not assuming. I’m observing.” His gaze flicks back toward Bella—toward the way she’s laughing at something Jenna just said, her head tipped back, hair a silken wave over her shoulders. “And what I’m observing is very simple: you, brat , burn hotter than the sun. And her?”
I feel my pulse jump.
“She’s gasoline,” Arseny finishes simply.
My pulse throbs against my throat. He’s not wrong. Bringing her here was a mistake. Placing her where I can see her—where everyone can see her—was reckless at best. I told myself it was security. I told myself it was practicality.
Lies. Even to myself.
I wanted her close. Where I could see her. Where others would see she was under my protection. Where I could reach her in ninety-seven seconds if needed. I’ve timed it.
He is right about that. I am feeling more possessive than I should. The need to have her close, to shield her from other men’s eyes, to provide for her every need—it goes beyond our arrangement. Beyond what makes sense for a marriage of convenience.
But before I can respond, Bella emerges from the pantry, coffee cup in hand. The skirt she’s wearing clings to her curves like a second skin, accentuating the sway of her hips with each step. The guard’s eyes follow her movement like a starving man watching a feast. I can’t blame him. I’m doing the same thing.
She bends over slightly to set her cup down, and my breath catches. The fabric pulls taut across her ass, outlining every perfect curve. Blood rushes south so quickly that I feel light-headed.
Beside me, Arseny clears his throat. “If you grip that pen any harder, it’s going to explode.”
I glance down. My knuckles are white around a Mont Blanc that’s threatening to snap in half.
“I don’t remember approving that outfit,” I mutter, releasing the pen before I destroy it.
“Did you implement a dress code for your wife I’m unaware of?” Arseny asks, eyes dancing with amusement. “Perhaps a uniform? Combat fatigues? A hazmat suit?”
Mental note: change her work wardrobe to something loose. Sackcloth. Burlap. Preferably with a warning label: Hazardous Material. Keep Away From All Males Within Fifty Meters.
Blyad.
“Timur,” I say quietly. “That guard. Don’t fire him. Break his arm.”
“Boss—” Timur begins.
“Fine. A finger, then.”
Arseny sighs dramatically. “Remember when you used to be this passionate about actual business matters? Before you decided to play house?”
“I’ve known you too long to fear you, Kostya,” he says, using the childhood nickname that only he can get away with. “And this…” he gestures toward the window, toward her, “this obsession is becoming a liability.”
“It’s not an obsession,” I counter. “It’s protection of an asset.”
“Ah yes, assets.” Arseny nods solemnly. “I often stare at my other assets for twenty minutes straight during critical business meetings.”
“ Idi nahui ,” I mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it.
Timur clears his throat. “Alya’s school situation is arranged. She begins next week. St. Catherine’s has accepted her mid-term with the… generous donation you provided.”
This pulls my attention fully back to the room. “Security?”
“Two teams. One visible, one not. Rotation every four hours. The entire teaching staff has been thoroughly vetted,” Timur recites the details. “And the vehicle you requested for Mrs. Belov has been ordered. Range Rover Autobiography, bulletproof glass, reinforced panels, custom interior. Strictly for school pickups and drop-offs. Delivery next Wednesday.”
“A Range Rover?” Arseny’s eyebrows shoot up. “For a woman who, until last week, was driving a Toyota so old it could vote?”
I shrug. “She’ll need something suitable for driving Alya.”
“Of course.” Arseny nods, face mock-serious. “Because the only suitable vehicle for school transportation is a three-hundred-thousand-dollar tank with custom leather seats.”
Timur shifts uncomfortably, clearly unwilling to join in on mocking me but equally unwilling to defend such an obvious extravagance.
“And her personal car?” Arseny presses.
“Aston Martin DBX. Matte gunmetal. Delivered yesterday,” I say, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Arseny whistles low. “From a Toyota to a Range Rover and an Aston Martin. I’d say Mrs. Belov officially graduated to the big leagues.”
“You have concerns about my expenditures?” I ask Arseny.
He holds up his hands in surrender, but his eyes are still laughing at me.
“Not at all. I simply find it interesting that a man who once spent twenty minutes berating me over the cost of printer paper is now casually purchasing luxury vehicles for a wife he claims is just a contractual requirement.”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the desk. “Fuck off.”
“Look,” he pushes on. “I’m simply suggesting that moving her business here, buying her expensive gifts, threatening men who glance in her direction… these are not the actions of a man fulfilling a contract.”
As if on cue, my office phone rings. I press the speaker button, and her voice crackles through the line, bright and effortlessly provocative.
“Hello?” Bella’s voice fills the room, hesitant but with that undercurrent of defiance that seems to color everything she does. “I… I’m sorry to disturb, but it’s an hour past lunch, and I’m wondering if you guys—you know—eat? Or is sustenance beneath the mighty Belovs?”
Timur’s eyebrows shoot up at her tone. Arseny’s mouth quirks into an amused smile.
“We eat,” I reply, my voice betraying nothing of the unexpected pleasure her call brings. “What do you need?”
“Recommendations, mostly,” she says. “My assistant suggested some place called Pushkin, but I got the impression that’s not exactly ‘grab a quick sandwich’ territory.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
“So…”
“So I’ll come get you,” I say before I can think better of it. “Five minutes.”
There’s a pause. “Oh. I didn’t mean… I can just—”
“Five minutes,” I repeat, then end the call.
Arseny is watching me with undisguised glee. “Just a contract,” he mimics.
I ignore him, already mentally cataloging what else she’ll need. Proper clothes for Los Angeles elite restaurants. Evening wear for the inevitable functions. Her wardrobe was pitiful—I saw it myself when the staff moved her things. Cheap fabrics. Practical cuts. Nothing befitting a Belov.
Before Arseny can open his damn mouth again, my personal phone buzzes on the table. A notification from our events team. I scan it once, and my jaw tightens.
“Change my schedule for tonight,” I order.
Timur straightens. “The Summit?”
“I’m not going alone,” I say, already reaching for the speakerphone. “Tell the organizers I’m bringing my wife.”
Timur nods once, already making notes in his ever-present tablet.
Arseny, the bastard, leans back with a smile that says he’s won something.
“Natasha Winters will be disappointed. She’s been trying to get you alone at these events for years. And what about the others? Half the women in that room have warmed your bed at some point.”
I meet his gaze directly. “Let them be disappointed.”
“They’re expecting the usual Konstantin Belov. The one who brings a different woman each time. The one who never brings the same date twice.”
“So I’ll surprise them,” I reply, unbothered. “Change is good for business.”
Arseny’s eyebrows shoot up. “You think she’s—”
“One more word,” I cut him off, voice dropping to that quiet register that’s made men wet themselves, “and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out myself.”
Arseny’s smirk dies a quick, brutal death.
But the bastard recovers fast— too fast —dragging a calloused finger across his lips in a slow, mocking zip.