35. Chapter 35
35
Konstantin
T he hum of the engines is constant, a low, expensive purr that seeps into your bones. The Gulfstream cuts through the clouds like it owns the sky, which—technically speaking—it does. Timur’s already buckled in across from me, laptop open, tapping like he’s trying to murder the keyboard. Arseny lounges like it’s his personal cigar club, legs stretched out, a glass of something aged and smug in hand.
And the new flight attendant?
She’s trying too hard.
Bleached-blonde, legs that go on forever, lips that look store-bought and poorly installed. Her uniform’s pristine, shirt one button too low to be accidental, smile fixed straight at me.
Arseny tracks the whole thing like it’s a sport.
“She’s been glancing at your crotch every eight seconds,” he says without looking up. “I counted.”
“She’s wasting her time.”
Arseny raises his glass. “Tragic. For her.”
I glance once. Just enough to make it clear I’ve noticed. Her face lights up like I handed her a diamond. I don’t return it. Not because I’m polite. Because I’m not interested.
Not in the girl.
Not in anything that isn’t wearing my ring and calling me an asshole while doing it.
Bella.
I pull out my phone. One bar. The message I sent this morning still says: Delivered . Read .
No reply.
Of course not.
Victor’s text appears:
Subject has arrived at Blackwood Academy. All clear.
The flight attendant—Natalia, according to her too-shiny nametag—approaches with another bottle of water.
“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Belov?” Her voice dips on my name, practiced and performative.
“No.”
She lingers, one hip cocked, an invitation written in body language simple enough for a blind man to read.
“The gentleman across from me might need something.” I don’t look up.
Arseny raises his glass in mock salute as she retreats. “Your rejection technique lacks finesse.”
“Finesse is a waste of time.”
“So is checking your phone every thirty seconds, yet here we are.”
Arseny leans back, swirling his drink. “Isn’t Viktor tailing her? What, the human surveillance isn’t enough now?”
I ignore him and take a sip of water instead.
Victor’s with her.
He always is.
She doesn’t know that part yet—not really—but I don’t take chances. Not with her. Especially not now.
Too many enemies. Too many people who’d take her just to get to me.
Timur clears his throat. “We’re wheels down in fifty. I pulled what I could on the guy from the Summit.”
I straighten and pocket the phone. Business. Focus.
“What do we know?” I ask.
“Name’s Davis Collins. Mid-thirties. American-born, Moscow-trained. Ex-FSB, ghosted after a classified op in Singapore six years ago. Now he freelances—security, recon, corporate sabotage, asset acquisition.”
“Mercenary,” I mutter.
“High-end,” Timur confirms. “Works mostly in Asia. Hong Kong, Singapore, Macau. But his name popped up in Dubai last year. And now… he’s suddenly back here.”
“Why now?” I ask.
Timur gives a look I don’t like. “He used to work for the Mikhailovs. Mostly clean-up work. Quiet. Off-the-books.”
Irina’s family.
Of course.
Arseny whistles low. “Well. Isn’t that a fun little corpse clawing its way out of the grave.”
Timur nods, face blank but tight around the mouth. “If he’s back, and he’s sniffing around Bella—”
“He wasn’t just sniffing.” My jaw tenses. “He spoke to her. Alone.”
“Which means someone paid him to.” Timur closes the laptop. “He doesn’t freelance for free.”
“Could be business,” Arseny says too casually. “Could be someone checking your new Mrs. for cracks. Could be the ghost of wives past. Could be— Hell, maybe the man just likes brunettes with attitude.”
I’m already shaking my head. “He’s not dumb enough to approach her unless he wanted to be seen. This was a message.”
Arseny shrugs. “Then message received.”
Timur’s silent for a beat. “Want me to dig deeper? Tap old FSB contacts?”
“Do it quietly.”
“Understood.”
I lean back, watching the clouds burn away outside the window. The vodka tastes like nothing. My phone buzzes once.
Bella: Taking black card to get school supplies after science fair. Hope your “business” keeps you gone for a while.
I should be annoyed.
I should be angry.
Instead, something loosens in my chest. Something unnamable. Something dangerous.
“Oh, good,” Arseny says, watching my face. “She’s alive. I was about to call in a search party.”
“She’s at the school.”
“Does she know you have Victor shadowing her? Or that her car’s got more trackers than a tagged tiger?”
“She knows enough.”
Which is a lie. She knows nothing about the men who rotate shifts around her.
“The New York meeting,” I say. “Push it two hours. I want Collins’ movements tracked. Airports, hotels, who he’s meeting.”
“And the Mikhailovs?” Timur asks.
“I’ll deal with them personally.”
Alexei Mikhailov hasn’t spoken to me since Irina vanished. He blamed me for her leaving. As if I’d stolen her instead of watching her walk out the front door without so much as a look back at her children.
“The property deal,” I continue, regaining focus.
Arseny slides a folder across the table. “Parker Group’s threatening to leak Rotterdam files if we force the acquisition.”
“Let them. Then buy them through the shell corp. Fire the board. Make examples.”
Arseny raises a brow. “Brutal.”
“Necessary.”
“And Collins?” Timur presses.
“We wait. He made a mistake showing himself. I want to see what else he gives up.”
What I don’t say: No one touches her again. No one from that old world even breathes in her direction.
Bella—contract or not—is mine.
“We land in thirty,” Timur says.
New York. The skyline will be gray and bristling, the air wet with February filth, but the deal we’re here to close has teeth—and Davis Collins might not be the only ghost waiting in this city.
“Good. I need to be back in California by tomorrow night.”
Arseny glances up. “Something important?”
I should lie. Tell him it’s business. A meeting. A numbers game.
But instead, I say, “I promised Alya I’d help pick out her school bag.”
Arseny blinks once, then recovers with a slow nod. “Right. Priorities.”
I lean back. Eyes open. Mind nowhere near this jet.
I could send her nanny. Or Bella. Bella would do it—she’d make a whole afternoon of it. Lunch, photos, some over-the-top commentary about glitter zippers and unicorns that would make Alya roll her eyes and secretly love it.
But that’s not why I want to go back.
I want to see her.
Not the kid. Her .
I should let it go. Should bury the instinct. Shove it down like I’ve done with every other weakness since I was 15, and my father taught me exactly what loving something too much costs.
But I check the tracker, anyway.
The little blue dot glows.
Her phone. My system.
Blackwood Academy – Monterey, California.
Her.
And the kids.
Julian. Lila.
I didn’t ask for them. Didn’t plan for them. But they came with her like shadows she refuses to leave behind.
The way her blue eyes lock in when she talks about them—focused, edged, like she’s already run the worst-case scenarios in her head. Like she’d burn the world down before letting anything touch them.
She’s not their mother—but fuck, she may as well be.
Most people her age are still trying to find themselves on wellness retreats or TikTok. Bella’s playing provider, therapist, and estate defender, all while running a multimillion-dollar sales team I threw at her with zero warning.
And she’s handling it.
Not flawlessly. But better than most men I’ve broken bread—and bones—with.
She has no idea I see it. That I watch it. Quietly. Every move. Every fire she puts out without asking for help. Every meeting she walks into like she belongs, even when the old guard wants her to fail.
There’s strength in her that no one taught her to wield.
And maybe that’s what makes it so fucking dangerous.
“Boss.” Timur’s voice slices through the quiet.
He doesn’t use my name unless it matters.
I sit up.
He turns the tablet toward me without a word.
It’s a surveillance shot. Grainy. Zoomed in. Someone tried to mask the image—blurred edges, bad cropping, timestamp cut off.
But I know the background.
I know the building.
My wedding.
Church doors. Flower arrangements. A blur of Bella’s veil trailing behind her in the distance. And just off-center—partially obscured by a tree, head ducked low under oversized sunglasses and a scarf—
Irina.
The bones of her face. The posture. That slight turn of the shoulder, like she’s preparing to vanish again.
Everything in me goes still.
No words.
Just the dull static roar of what the fuck.
“She was there,” Timur says.
Not a question. A confirmation.
“She watched,” I murmur, leaning closer to the screen. “She was standing right there. ”
Seven years of silence.
Seven years of absence.
And now she shows up not just in the country—but at my wedding.
Arseny exhales through his nose. “Congratulations. You’re officially being haunted by your ex-wife.”