27. Chapter 27
27
Bella
H oly mother of all questionable life choices, what was that back at Bergdorf’s? Intense doesn’t even cut it—try sexually apocalyptic.
Konstantin Belov, with his carved-from-marble face and that accent like a velvet blade, went full-on possessive lunatic—ripping my panties to shreds, pinning me like he owned every inch of me, leaving me a trembling, soaked mess. And don’t get me started on his cock. I swear I can still feel it, hard as steel, when I grabbed him, practically daring me to forget how to blink. I’m a grown woman, not some swooning damsel, but that man’s got me questioning my grip on reality.
Now, stepping out of his ridiculous Rolls-Royce Cullinan—because apparently, Konstantin doesn’t roll in anything less than a six-figure chariot—I’m waging a silent war not to ruin this red dress in a way no stain remover could fix.
No panties, courtesy of that smug jerk.
Every step is a tightrope walk over a pit of Don’t Let Your Clit Betray You, and with Konstantin’s hand resting low on my hip as he guides me out, I’m losing, big time.
His touch is electric, sending sparks straight to my core, and my body’s like, “Yes, please, let’s melt right here on Sunset Boulevard.” My brain, though? It’s screaming, “Bella, you’re 29, not thirteen—act like you’ve met a man before!”
But functioning around Konstantin is like trying to solve calculus during an earthquake. He’s all brooding intensity, six-foot-four of tailored menace, smelling like cedar and remorse. And the kicker? I know he’s just as wrecked. I saw it—the way his jaw clenched, the way his cock strained like it wanted to stage a jailbreak back there.
Two adults circling each other like idiots in a lust-fueled standoff, and I’m pissed he’s winning at keeping it together. I’m one wrong move from begging, and I hate how much I want to.
The Chateau Marmont towers ahead, LA’s glittering castle of old glamor and new power, its gothic arches glowing under the night sky. The Summit’s tonight, and it’s not some casual mixer. Picture 200 of the city’s heavy hitters—billionaires with private jets, politicians with dirtier secrets than their offshore accounts, power brokers sealing deals that’d make your accountant cry—all packed into one room, sipping Dom Pérignon like it’s water.
Wives only, Konstantin said, which means I’m his polished prop, here to dazzle and not disgrace. Awesome. Nothing says “dream night” like being eye candy for a guy who makes my thighs quiver and my common sense vanish.
I force my legs to move, praying this red silk doesn’t broadcast how precarious my situation is down there. Konstantin’s hand stays on my hip, fingers grazing just close enough to where I’m bare to make me grit my teeth. He’s doing it on purpose, I swear—sadistic bastard.
“You holding up, krasavitsa ?” he murmurs, voice a low rumble that hits me like a shot of whiskey.
“Totally fine,” I lie, but it’s more of a squeak, and my face heats up.
Great job, Bella, super convincing .
I focus on the lobby to keep from imploding. The Chateau’s interior is a fantasy of velvet drapes and gold trim, chandeliers sparkling like they’re flexing their net worth.
A socialite in a skintight emerald dress—think Botox and ambition in human form—shoots Konstantin a look that’s half flirt, half appraisal, then sizes me up like I’m last season’s Gucci. A waiter, barely 20, juggles a tray of martinis, his eyes darting nervously when Konstantin glances his way. And there’s a security guard near the grand staircase, built like a linebacker, muttering into an earpiece while scanning the crowd like he’s hunting spies.
The vibe’s all money and menace, everyone playing their part, and I’m just trying not to trip over my own hormones.
The ballroom’s even worse—a glittering maze of tuxedos and gowns, the air buzzing with low laughter and clinking glasses. I catch fragments of talk—tax loopholes, Santa Monica waterfront—and spot a silver-haired guy who probably owns half the Pacific Coast nodding at Konstantin like they’re old chess rivals. My stomach twists. This is his world, cold and cutthroat, and I’m wading in with nothing but a dress and a pulse that won’t quit racing. I’m half-convinced I’ll say something dumb, like asking for a burger in a room full of caviar snobs.
I’m about to lean into Konstantin—maybe ask what I’m supposed to do besides look pretty—when two figures slice through the crowd like knives through butter. Timur, his right-hand man, all sharp angles and arctic vibes, barely acknowledges me with a glance. Arseny’s beside him, broader, a scar across his brow that says he’s seen things I don’t want to imagine. They don’t waste time on small talk.
“Boss,” Timur says, voice clipped. “Minister’s waiting. Hudson Yards. Says it’s urgent.”
Konstantin’s hand tightens on my hip, just for a second, and I feel the shift in him—playtime’s over, back to kingpin mode.
“Stay here,” he tells me, eyes locking on mine, a warning and a promise rolled into one. “Don’t wander.”
I open my mouth—maybe to snap something sarcastic about not being his pet—but he’s already moving, Timur and Arseny flanking him like wolves as they head toward a private alcove. The crowd parts, and I’m left standing there, dress clinging to my skin, no panties, and a whole lot of “what the hell is my life” rattling in my head.
I grab a flute of champagne from a passing tray, mostly to have something to do with my hands. The Summit swirls around me, a sea of power and polish, but all I can think is how Konstantin’s touch still burns, how I’m aching for a man I should hate, and how I’m supposed to survive this night without losing what’s left of my sanity.
Cheers to that, Bella. Cheers to that.
The ballroom’s a glittering cage, and I’m the odd bird flapping in the middle. Without Konstantin’s shadow to anchor me, I’m just… here, clutching my flute like it’s a life raft.
I take a sip—okay, a gulp—and then another because, holy hell, everyone’s staring.
Or maybe they’re not, but it feels like it.
A guy in a tux with a watch that could retire me slides past, his eyes flicking over me like I’m a misplaced intern. A woman with diamond earrings bigger than my thumbnail whispers to her friend, their glances sharp enough to cut. Who’s this chick? Lost tourist? their looks scream.
Fuck this.
My stomach knots. I don’t belong here—not in this dress, not in this world. I’m a nobody playing dress-up, and they can smell it.
Another gulp of champagne.
Bad idea.
The bubbles hit too fast, fizzing in my head, and I’m already wobbly in these heels.
Slow down, Bella, you’re not at a frat party.
But standing here, pantyless and paranoid, I feel like I’m auditioning for a role I didn’t sign up for. Konstantin’s wife? Yeah, right. More like his temporary prop, and the thought stings more than it should. I drain the flute and grab another from a waiter who doesn’t even look at me. Classy.
Desperate for a corner to hide in, I weave through the crowd to the bar along the ballroom’s edge. It’s quieter here, just a few women clustered together, their laughter like crystal clinking. They’re posh—Hollywood-star posh, dripping in elegance that makes my red dress feel like a clearance-rack knockoff. One’s in a sapphire gown that hugs her like a lover, sapphires sparkling at her throat, her blonde hair swept into an updo so perfect it probably took three stylists. Another rocks a black velvet dress, off-the-shoulder, with a slit that screams “I dare you to look,” her auburn curls bouncing as she laughs. The third’s in gold lamé, shimmering like a damn Oscar statuette, her manicured nails flashing as she gestures wildly.
I linger nearby, pretending to study the bar’s cocktail menu, but their voices carry, sharp and gossipy.
“Konstantin Belov, married? No way,” Sapphire Blonde says, her tone dripping with disbelief.
“I heard it tonight, swear to God. Some nobody, apparently.”
“Married?” Black Velvet scoffs, sipping her martini. “That man doesn’t do commitment. He’s too… untouchable. Remember Monaco last year? He left half the room panting and didn’t call a single one back.”
Gold Lamé gasps, leaning in. “Wait, what? Married? I came here thinking I’d get another shot with him!” Her laugh is half-joking, but there’s an edge, like she’s genuinely thrown. “You’re telling me I flew in from Dubai for nothing?”
My tummy churns, a nasty mix of jealousy and— ugh, amusement?
I mean, come on, these women are practically forming a Konstantin Belov fan club, and I’m the idiot who’s legally tied to him.
Sucks to be you, Goldie, I think, but the jab doesn’t land right. Because he’s not really mine, is he? Just a contract, a game, and yet the thought of him with her—or any of them—makes me want to fling my champagne in their faces.
Get it together, Bella. You’re not his girlfriend.
I’m halfway through my third flute—definitely a mistake—when a guy sidles up beside me. He’s… off, somehow. Too polished, like a magazine ad come to life—mid-forties, slick dark hair, a smile that’s pure teeth and charm. His suit’s sharp, but his vibe’s slippery, like he’s selling something.
“Evening,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “You look like you could use a friend in this shark tank. First time at the Summit?” he asks, eyes glinting with something I can’t place. “It’s a lot, right? All these egos in one room.” He chuckles, but it’s practiced, and his gaze keeps darting—over my shoulder, around the room, like he’s clocking every exit. “You here with someone special?”
My gut twists. Something’s wrong. He’s too nice, too curious, and the way he’s looking at me—like I’m a puzzle he’s itching to crack—sets my nerves on edge.
“Just… enjoying the night,” I hedge, gripping my flute tighter, wishing I hadn’t downed so much bubbly.
Stupid, Bella. You’re not this naive .
He tilts his head, smile widening. “Come on, you can tell me. I’m good at keeping secrets.” Then, lower, almost a whisper: “You’re with Konstantin Belov, aren’t you? Quite a catch.”
The name lands like a stone, and my heart stutters.
How does he—?
I open my mouth, fumbling for a lie, but before I can get a word out, a fist cracks across his face, hard and fast. The guy stumbles, blood spurting from his nose, and I jerk back, champagne sloshing over my hand.
I look up, and— Oh, God. Konstantin’s there, eyes blazing, fist still clenched, his whole body radiating fury like he’s ready to tear the room apart. My breath catches, and I swear, I’ve never been this wet in my life—not back at Bergdorf’s, not ever. He’s a storm, protective and primal, and the way he’s glaring at this creep, like he’d burn the Chateau down for me, has my core throbbing so hard I can barely stand.
“Who the fuck are you?” Konstantin snarls, stepping between me and the guy, but the stranger’s already scrambling back, hand to his face, eyes wide with something like fear—or calculation.
I’m frozen, heart pounding, wondering what the hell just happened—and what’s about to.
“Easy, Belov,” the guy says, voice steady despite the hit. “Just making conversation.” But his gaze flicks to me again, too long, too knowing, and my stomach lurches. He’s not random. He’s someone, and the way he says Konstantin’s name—like he’s got a file on him—makes my skin crawl.
Konstantin grabs his collar, yanking him close, and the room seems to freeze, heads turning, whispers rippling.
“Touch her again, and you’re dead,” he growls, low enough that only we hear, but it’s a promise, not a threat. My heart’s hammering, torn between the thrill of his protection and a creeping dread—what does this guy want? Why me?
The stranger raises his hands, still smirking, but there’s a glint in his eyes—something hungry, like he’s won a prize he didn’t expect.
“No harm done,” he says, stepping back, but his glance at me lingers, a silent “I’ll be seeing you.” Then he slips into the crowd, gone before Konstantin can lunge again.
Konstantin turns to me, breathing hard, his face a mix of fury and— Fuck, is that worry? His hand cups my jaw, rough but gentle, searching my eyes.
“You okay?” he asks, voice raw, and it’s the closest I’ve seen him come to unraveling. I nod, but I’m shaking, not just from the warmth flooding my chest— does he actually care? —but from a gnawing fear. This wasn’t just a creepy pickup line. Something’s off, and I’m caught in the middle.