37. Chapter 37
37
Bella
I t’s just past 4:08 p.m.
Which means it’s been exactly three hours since my teenage brother decided to emotionally blackmail me into introducing him to my possibly murderous fake husband.
Now I’m in the Aston, barreling up the Pacific Coast Highway with a mild heart attack and a latte I forgot to finish sloshing in the cupholder.
What the fuck should I do.
I grip the wheel tighter.
Konstantin is not someone you just… introduce.
He’s not a “hey, this is my husband; he likes his steak rare and doesn’t kill people unless absolutely necessary” kind of man. He’s a limited-access, password-protected, high-security, do-not-disturb folder of a human being.
And now Julian wants a face-to-face.
With my temporary husband.
Who happens to run an empire and looks like he personally owns the word “danger” in six languages.
I’m going to die.
I hit a bump, and the car purrs like it enjoyed it. Of course it does. This car doesn’t have empathy. It has horsepower and secrets.
I should be practicing what to say to Konstantin.
“Hey, babe, funny thing… Remember how we said this marriage was just for optics and we’d keep things clean and strategic? Well—small change in plans! My brother threatened to drop out of elite school unless he gets a sit-down with his new brother-in-law. Surprise!”
I am absolutely not ready for this.
I run a hand through my hair, already cursing the curls that’ve frizzed at the temples like they sense my stress.
And then—like divine intervention wrapped in chaos—
My phone rings.
ELENA.
Caller ID: [Fire emoji] Babe Hot Chick [Fire emoji]
I answer on speaker like it’s a lifeline. “Please tell me you brought Japanese snacks and emotional stability.”
“ Surprise, girl! Your bitch is back! ” Elena practically screams into the line.
I let out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Oh, my God.”
“I landed an hour ago. Jet-lagged, mildly hungover, and horny—but I’m home.”
“You’re a national treasure.”
“Damn right, I am. Where are you? Are we drinking tonight or burying bodies?”
I glance at the road. I was headed back to Big Sur, but… no. No, I need her. I need Elena like oxygen and tequila.
I stab at the screen and flip the GPS like I’m flipping off my entire sense of responsibility.
“Diverting route. We’re meeting. I don’t care where. Just tell me you’re not in LA.”
“Nope, I’m in Carmel. Took a detour to avoid my ex and shop for overpriced moisturizer I don’t need.”
“Bless you. Text me a pin. I’ll be there in twenty.”
I make the turn, tires slicing clean against the pavement, and my GPS gasps like I’ve personally offended its sense of order.
“Rerouting,” it chirps, polite but smug.
Yeah, well. So is my whole life.
I tap to open Elena’s pin—some bougie café in downtown Carmel, probably selling lavender-infused espresso and gluten-free existential dread. Just as the map resets, something flickers in the corner of my eye.
A black SUV. Sleek. Big. Windows tinted so dark I could use them as a mirror.
Not unusual. Not in this area.
Except… it was behind me at the last light. And the one before that.
And maybe—maybe even earlier, outside Elite Properties?
I can’t be sure. I wasn’t looking. But now that I’m paying attention, it feels like it’s been there. Lingering. Unbothered. Like it has nowhere better to be than exactly where I am.
I grip the wheel tighter.
Konstantin?
Would he—? No. No, he wouldn’t need to follow me. Not when he could just have Timur ping my location through some terrifying Russian tech that probably hasn’t been legal since the Cold War.
Still… my spine prickles.
I glance again.
Still behind me.
Same distance. Same speed. No turn signal.
I press the accelerator a little harder, not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to feel like I’m still the one in control.
My phone buzzes again. Incoming call.
Aunt Peggy.
My stomach sinks like it’s been shot.
I debate ignoring it. Letting it rot in voicemail hell. But I know her. If I don’t pick up now, she’ll just try Lila’s school. Or Julian’s dorm. Or call every damn office listed under my real estate license like she’s hunting for blood.
I swipe to answer, already bracing.
“Hello?”
“Oh, so you do still answer your phone,” she says, voice sharp as bleach.
I say nothing.
“We need to talk. It’s important.”
That’s Aunt Peggy code for: “We need money. Again.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Michael’s failed another ‘startup’?”
She sniffs. “Don’t be cruel, Isabella. He’s trying.”
“He’s 26 and still doesn’t understand what the word ‘inventory’ means.”
“He’s had a rough year.”
“So did I. You don’t see me begging the family I tried to screw over.”
There’s a pause. Then the claws come out.
“Must be nice,” she spits. “Married to a rich man, acting like you earned it. I suppose spreading your legs was easier than getting a real job.”
My hand flies to the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.
I glance at the mirror again. SUV still there. Too close now.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” I say, voice low and shaking—but not from fear.
“Oh, please. Everyone sees what you are. Walking around in your designer shoes like you’re better than us. But we remember. We remember who you were before you spread your legs for the Bratva.”
There’s a pop in my ears like my rage just broke the sound barrier.
“I kept my siblings out of foster care,” I say. “I gave up everything for them while you sat in that house, sipping martinis and siphoning money from their trust.”
“You don’t scare me, Isabella.”
“You should.”
I end the call.
The silence after is volcanic.
I can feel my pulse in my neck, in my fingertips, in the tremble I won’t let take over my foot as I press the gas.
And then—
I see it. Out of the corner of my eye . The SUV pulls closer. Too close.
My lane curves right. It follows. Doesn’t pass. Doesn’t slow. Just hovers.
My heart stutters once. Then catches.
I don’t know if it’s Konstantin’s people or someone else.
I don’t know if I’m paranoid or finally seeing the world for what it is now—ruthless, layered in shadows, full of people who want things from me.
I pull up to the curb like a woman who doesn’t think about her ex-Getaway Driver car training and definitely doesn’t check every black SUV in the rearview mirror.
Parked. Engine off. Heart still going like it got stuck in fifth gear.
I step out.
Immediately— eyes.
Three middle-aged tourists eating gelato glance up. A couple at the next table stops mid-bite of something croissant-adjacent. One guy in a woven fedora actually lowers his sunglasses to get a better look.
Right. The car. The heels. The whole “I may or may not be married to a Bond villain” energy I’m apparently radiating now.
I square my shoulders and pretend not to care.
Because there she is.
Elena sitting in the café window like she owns the damn planet. Or just Tokyo. Same thing.
She waves a hand with black chrome nails and grins wide enough to qualify as a public disturbance.
And dear God, she’s had a full-blown anime girl transformation. Her hair is icy lavender , curled into twin space buns, and her outfit looks like Sailor Moon joined a biker gang. There’s a mesh corset, oversized combat boots, and what I can only assume is a dragon embroidered across her thigh.
She looks insane. And exactly like home.
I walk in, and she doesn’t wait. She launches from her chair and tackles me with a hug, squealing like we’re in a J-drama reunion episode.
“Babe, hot chick,” she gasps. “You’re alive!”
“I think so.”
She pulls back, scans me up and down with mock horror, then grabs my chin like she’s inspecting a prize horse.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my actual God.”
“What?”
“You got laid.”
“I did not—”
“You got laid laid. Bella, you’re glowing . You’re like a postpartum sunbeam.”
My eyes dart around the café, which is unfortunately not empty.
It’s small and local, full of people trying very hard to look like they didn’t hear that. The barista freezes mid-pour. The couple two tables over—bickering over a gluten-free muffin—go completely silent. The girl with the laptop stops typing. The guy in the beret sketching something looks up, like he’s just found the plot twist in his indie graphic novel.
I hiss, “Oh God, shut up!”
Too late. Elena flips her hair back like she’s on a wind machine, grabs both my hands dramatically, and lowers her voice exactly half a decibel .
“I stand by my diagnosis,” she whispers—still loudly enough for the plants to blush. “Bitch, don’t lie to me. You’ve got post-sex clarity face and the kind of skin that says male attention and expensive body oil were involved . ”
“I swear to God, I will throw you through the window.”
“Please. You’d miss me. And you’re not denying it.”
I groan, rubbing my temples. “It’s just moisturizer. And four hours of sleep.”
She grins like a goblin who found a stash of gold. “Nope. That’s dick-glow , and I will die on this hill.”
I shush her again, glaring. “People are listening.”
“Let them. You’re a cautionary tale and a vision.”
I finally slide into the seat across from her, mostly to stop myself from disassociating into the wallpaper. She flops into her chair like it’s a beanbag and waves at the waiter like she owns him.
“Oat milk latte, extra ice, and whatever’s making my friend here so unreasonably hot and hostile,” she tells him, then turns back to me like we didn’t just derail the ambiance of the entire café.
I roll my eyes at her. The look —the one that says, “I will not fuck and tell,” and she knows it.
Elena narrows her eyes. “Ugh. Fine. Be mysterious. But just so you know, I’ve already written fanfic in my head. He’s Russian. He growls. There’s probably velvet involved.”
I change the subject so fast it could qualify as whiplash.
“You look good,” I say, grabbing the water glass on the table like it’s going to save me.
“So do you.” She sips her drink and shrugs. “Tense. But good.”
I raise a brow. “You, on the other hand, look like a Final Fantasy character who lost a bet.”
“Thank you.” She beams. “Japan changed me. I bought a sword.”
“Of course you did.”
She leans in now, voice soft but serious. The shift happens fast—only Elena can go from glittery chaos to gut-punch real in two seconds flat.
“Okay,” she says. “So. What’s going on?”
I open my mouth.
But I don’t even know where to begin.
I start to speak.
She stops me with a finger. “Wait. Let me guess. You had sex with your emotionally constipated husband. It was fucking great. Then he vanished into the mafia mist again. Now your brother wants to meet him, and you’re spiraling into a panic-drenched tailspin while pretending everything is fine.”
I blink.
“I’m sorry—did you read my browser history?”
She shrugs. “I know your chaos pattern, Bell. You’re like a tornado wrapped in beige. And I love you.”
I let out a long, exhausted breath.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Elena. This isn’t… a life. This is a hostage negotiation with good skincare.”
“You need to stop thinking five years ahead. You’re always trying to fix everything before it breaks. Just live in the moment.”
“I hate the moment.”
She taps the table with a manicured nail. “In Japan, there’s a saying— ’nareai wa kusai.’ ”
“Please don’t Zen me right now.”
“It means ‘overfamiliarity smells like old fish.’”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It means stop turning every hot night into a life plan. Enjoy the sushi. Don’t marry the tuna.”
I snort. “That’s not real.”
“Google it.”
“I will not.”
She grins. “Good. That’s the sound of you unwinding.”
The laughter fades, but the peace lingers for a second. Just one. Long enough for me to remember who she is, who I am, and why I need her more than anyone.
Then it hits me.
“Elena, what we talked about before—about Konstantin, the house, the kids—none of that can get out. I mean it. You can’t tell anyone.”
She blinks. “Obviously.”
“No, I mean it. I don’t care if you’re drunk or angry or bribed by a Sephora points scheme. You can’t say a word.”
She gasps in mock horror. “Oh no. What have I done?”
I freeze.
She leans in, eyes wide. “I may have told… the barista.”
“Elena.”
She cracks up and smacks my arm. “I’m joking , Bell. Jesus. I’m not that dumb.”
I exhale so hard I might collapse.
She leans back with a satisfied smirk, sipping what’s left of her latte like it’s victory.
Then her eyes flick past me. Pause. Narrow.
“What?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
Instead, she sets her cup down, dabs her lip like she’s suddenly a dignified lady of court, and murmurs, “He’s hot.”
“Who?”
“Table by the plant. Beige sweater. Book in hand. Dimples that could cut glass. And he’s definitely looking over here.”
I glance—once, quickly—and yep. Beige Sweater is real. And he’s definitely cute.
“Go powder your nose,” I say, rolling my eyes.
She tosses her hair over one shoulder like it’s rehearsed. “Already did. I’m going to go re-powder my power.”
She stands up, smooth as silk and sin, grabs her purse, and struts toward the restroom like she’s walking a Tokyo runway. One last glance over her shoulder and a wink—because of course she does.
And just like that, I’m alone at the table.
For a second, it’s peaceful. Still.
Then my phone buzzes.
I glance down, expecting Peggy. Or Julian. Or maybe—finally—Konstantin.
But it’s not saved. Just numbers. Ten digits, staring back at me like they know something I don’t.
My gut tugs.
I answer slowly. “Hello…?”
A pause. The faintest static.
Then, a woman’s voice, deliberate. Sharp. Russian.
“Hello, Isabella. I am Irina Mikhailova.”
My body goes cold.
The table. The café. Elena. All of it falls away in an instant.
The name clicks. First like a knock. Then like a bomb.
Irina.
My brain takes a second to catch up. Because I’ve heard it before—whispered, referenced, avoided like a curse word no one wants to say out loud.
Konstantin’s wife.
Correction—I’m Konstantin’s wife.
She’s the ex. The ghost. The one who vanished.
The one no one talks about.
Until now.
I hold my breath,
“I want to meet,” she says. “But you must not tell Konstantin. If you do…”
A pause.
A beat of static.
Then—
“Your siblings. Julian. Lila. I know where they are.”
The words hit like a bullet to the chest.
“Understand, devushka ? You say one word to him… and you won’t have a family left to protect.”
The line goes dead.
And I sit there, frozen, the phone still in my hand, the world still pretending everything’s normal—lattes foaming, forks scraping plates, someone laughing too loud two tables over—
While my entire body screams.