34. Chapter 34
34
Bella
T he first thing I register is warmth.
Then softness.
Then, a sudden, horrible awareness that I’m very, very naked.
My eyes flutter open, lashes sticking together. There’s a duvet draped over me, heavy and expensive—the kind that probably requires a bank loan to pay off. My limbs are tangled in the sheets, muscles loose and useless, like I’ve been wrung out and left to dry.
Which, to be fair, I kind of have.
I blink at the ceiling. Not mine.
It’s too dark, too sleek. Masculine. Minimalist. And oh. Right.
Oh. Right.
I had sex with Konstantin Belov. Again. Except this time? This time, it was apocalyptic.
The kind of sex that ruins other sex. That melts bones. That makes you think, “Maybe I won’t die alone surrounded by expired makeup samples and unopened mail after all.”
And now… I’m awake in his bed. Alone. Of course.
Then I hear it—the low rush of water. Shower.
Great. So he got up. Cleaned off. Probably scrubbed the memory of me from his skin already while I lay here marinating in shame and post-orgasm fog.
A door opens.
Steam pours out like a fog machine at a very sexy funeral, and there he is—stepping into the room like he owns gravity.
Which, honestly, he might. The towel slung low around his hips is an insult to my nervous system. Water clings to his chest and trails down to the ink wrapping his ribs. His hair’s damp. His expression? Not.
He walks to the bar and pours himself a glass of water as if it were just another Tuesday. Like he didn’t rearrange my entire internal anatomy two hours ago.
Then—shock of all shocks—he walks over to me and offers me the glass.
Like I’m a guest . Not someone he folded in half and ruined in his bed yesterday.
“Thanks,” I mumble, voice raw. I take the water because I’m not stupid, and my throat feels like I swallowed a desert. But I narrow my eyes as I sip it, watching him over the rim of the glass.
No smile. No affection. Not even smug satisfaction.
His face is perfectly blank. Like I’m just… here. Temporarily. Like I’ve overstayed my welcome, and the check-out time is now.
Cool. Love that for me.
I set the glass down on the nightstand and start moving, fast. Before he can say it. Before he can kick me out with one of his charming little one-liners that make me feel like lint on his tailored pants.
I fumble for the black silk sleepwear I had on—snatching it from where it’s been artfully draped across the floor like a casualty of war. It’s wrinkled, one strap twisted. It smells like him. Like me. Like us . Ugh.
I slide it over my head, avoiding his eyes. My fingers are shaking slightly, which is annoying. I can do a bra in the dark with one hand, but somehow, this feels like defusing a bomb.
I know he’s watching me.
I can feel it—the heat of it on my back as I smooth the dress down and pretend I don’t feel like a disposable wet wipe with great cheekbones.
Say it. Tell me to go. Tell me to get back to my room. Remind me this was just an obligation with orgasms.
But he doesn’t.
He just stands there, drinking his water like a statue with abs.
So I speak first before the silence swallows me whole.
“I should get back.”
It’s not a question. It’s not a plea.
It’s me, saving the last shred of my pride before he peels it off next.
The office disappears behind me in the rearview mirror, all glass edges and silent judgment, tucked high in the cliffs like it’s watching the world drown beneath it.
I made it through the day.
Just barely.
Four hours of sleep, three back-to-back meetings, two passive-aggressive emails from board members I don’t care about, and one very strategically ignored text thread from a man I had sex with last night and have barely heard from since.
Except I’m still vibrating from last night, and Konstantin hasn’t looked at me. Not really. Not since his fingers were on my spine and his mouth was—
Nope. Bury it.
He was at breakfast this morning. Silent. Stiff. Sipping espresso like it personally offended him. The twins had soccer stats to shout about, Alya insisted on showing me her drawing of a unicorn in a security vest, and I was so busy cutting pancakes into non-lethal squares that I didn’t even notice he was gone until the chair beside me was empty again.
Vrooom!
Again.
The wheel jerks under my grip, and I realize I’m driving like I’m running from something.
Maybe I am.
I’m behind the wheel of a matte gray Aston Martin worth more than my entire education, surviving on caffeine and spite. The car purrs beneath me—not a desperate wheeze like my old Toyota, but a confident rumble that promises power.
Poor Betsy would’ve had a stroke parked next to this thing.
Everything about this car feels wrong. The leather still smells new. The manual sits untouched in the glove compartment because men like Konstantin assume women can’t handle a stick shift.
The worst part? I love driving it.
It responds instantly. No hesitation. No backtalk. No passive-aggressive silences. It might be the most functional relationship in my life right now.
The coast stretches before me as I hit the highway. Monterey’s cliffs stand against the horizon, the sun breaking over the ocean like it’s trying too hard to be picturesque.
The science fair started thirty minutes ago.
My phone buzzes in the console.
Lila: Are you here yet?
Translation: Everyone’s parents are here, and I swear to God, if you make me the only orphan, I will emotionally blackmail you in front of the entire seventh grade.
The dashboard lights up with another name.
Leonie Mercer.
Of course.
I sigh and tap to answer.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Marquez. I wanted to inform you—the lease on your parents’ home has been finalized.”
I blink. “Already?”
“A family,” she says. “Thirty-something couple. Three children. A golden retriever, I believe. They moved in this morning.”
Of course they did.
“They’ve kept most of the structure intact,” she adds. “Requested to leave the swing set in the back. Said their kids were already attached to it.”
My throat tightens. Just a little.
“Yes. Okay, Leonie.”
“They’ll be wiring the first and last month’s rent to your escrow account by end of day. Full year lease, as agreed. I’ll forward the breakdown to your office.”
“Thank you.”
She pauses, professional again. “If you’d like, I can send photos of the staging—”
“No.” I press two fingers to my temple. “That won’t be necessary.”
Because I don’t need to see it.
I already know every inch of that house. Lila used to fall asleep on that swing after dinner, curled up like she was part of it. Julian broke his arm trying to backflip off the top bar. And I sanded that damn thing every summer until my knuckles bled because Dad swore anything worth keeping deserved to be cared for properly.
There’s a pause. Then Leonie’s voice snaps back to neutral. “Understood. That’ll be all for now. Have a pleasant afternoon.”
Click.
Just like that, it’s gone.
It’s someone else’s house now. Someone else’s lemon trees.
Someone else’s memories waiting to be made.
Konstantin is paying for everything—the kids’ education, groceries, the bills. This money? It’s a safety net. Something I can tuck away for after the contract ends. A little buffer for when the fairy tale lease is up, and reality comes knocking.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away.
The house deserves a family. Even if it isn’t ours anymore.
My phone buzzes again, this time with teenage impatience.
“Everyone’s parents are here,” Lila hisses when I answer, voice a dramatic whisper. “Where. Are. You?”
My chest tightens. “Ten minutes out.”
God. It’s so nice to hear her voice.
“Ten minutes is like forever in science fair time,” she snaps, then gasps. “Oh, my God, Mrs. Donahue is here with matching poster boards—do you even care about my future?”
I almost laugh, but it catches in my throat. Under all of her drama is a simple truth: she just wants someone there. Someone who belongs to her.
I want that, too.
“Tell Mrs. Donahue her matching set is trying too hard,” I mutter, shifting gears. “And tell your teacher the Marquez representative is incoming.”
“Better be. I used glitter glue. We’re winning this thing, or I’m becoming a TikTok star.”
She hangs up before I can respond.
I press the pedal harder, and the Aston responds like it understands what’s at stake—like it knows that sometimes, showing up is the only victory we get to claim.
Another text comes in. Konstantin.
I push the message while keeping my eyes on the road.
Konstantin: Flying out tonight. Destination classified. Take the black card for whatever the children need.
No follow-up. No explanation. Just a black card and a disappearing act.