39. Chapter 39
39
Bella
M y hands won’t stop fucking shaking.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, like that’s going to help with the earthquake happening inside my chest. The tires of the Aston hug the curves of the winding coastal road, and I can’t decide if I’m driving too fast or not fast enough.
“Breathe,” I mutter to myself. “Just breathe.”
The evening sky doesn’t help. It’s too goddamn beautiful. A watercolor blur of rose gold and bruised lavender stretches across the horizon, melting into the waves below. Sunlight dances off the cliffside like the world’s trying to show off.
Then the mansion comes into view—perched just far enough from the edge to be both dramatic and smug. The entire estate is lit up like some kind of coastal fantasy: golden lights glowing behind glass walls, warm lanterns flickering along the pathways, the infinity pool catching the sky’s last light like liquid crystal.
Okay. Now it’s looking less like a home and more like I’m driving straight into a luxury property ad titled: “Welcome to Your New Life: Scenic Views, Designer Furniture, and the Ex-Wife Who Might Want You Dead.”
The gate yawns open, quiet and seamless, like the house is expecting me. Like I’m part of its routine now.
It should feel normal by this point—pulling into this estate like I live here, like I’m not on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.
But my fingers stay clenched on the wheel, locked and aching. Every breath feels like a negotiation.
Irina called—and she wants to meet. The woman who left a crater in this family, and now thinks I won’t tell anyone she called me like we’re in some spy movie?
One of the guards standing by the gate gives me a curt nod, and the garage door begins to rise, smooth and mechanical, swallowing the tension with it.
I pull into the circular driveway, parking next to one of Konstantin’s ridiculous cars—the matte black Lamborghini today. I sit for a moment, engine off, staring at the mansion like it’s suddenly become alien territory.
What the fuck am I going to do?
Maybe I should tell him. Maybe Konstantin would—
No.
I won’t let Julian and Lila become collateral damage in a war between Russian psychopaths.
Would Konstantin even care if they were?
My phone buzzes. I check it—nothing from Irina, just a text from Elena:
Still alive?
I respond with a thumbs-up emoji because words are too hard right now.
“Mrs. Belov.”
“Jesus!” I jump, hand flying to my chest. My purse tumbles from my lap, spilling lip gloss and receipts across the driver’s seat.
Oleg stands at my car door, expressionless as a statue. He must have opened it while I was spiraling into my personal panic vortex.
“Sorry,” I mutter, gathering my scattered belongings. “I didn’t see you there, Oleg.”
He waits, one hand extended to help me out, as if I didn’t just have a mini heart attack.
“Breathing’s optional in this job, I guess?” I say, accepting his hand.
His mouth twitches—almost a smile, but not quite. “The children are waiting for you inside.”
“Right. The kids.” I take a step toward the house, then pause. “Is he back?” The question slips out, betraying the careful nonchalance I’m trying to maintain.
Oleg’s face remains impassive. “Mr. Belov is still away. He’ll return when necessary.”
I recognize the non-answer for what it is. Of course Oleg wouldn’t tell me Konstantin’s actual whereabouts. Security protocol. Need-to-know basis. And apparently, I don’t need to know.
Relief floods through me, anyway. At least I don’t have to pretend everything’s normal with him tonight. I need time to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about Irina without watching every word, every facial expression for signs of suspicion.
I smooth my skirt in a gesture that feels absurdly normal, given the circumstances. My heartbeat is a drum solo in my chest. My stomach’s tied in knots that would make a sailor weep.
I step inside, and the door closes behind me with a soft click that somehow sounds like a prison cell locking.
Dramatic much, Bella?
I’m halfway across the foyer when I hear it—the unmistakable sound of small feet barreling down the hallway. The thunder of tiny Nike sneakers against marble.
“BELLA!”
Two boys hit me like a hurricane. The stockier one slams into me first—all energetic force and tousled hair—followed closely by his slightly taller, leaner twin, who approaches with more restraint but equal enthusiasm.
I take in their faces, cataloging the differences I’ve been mentally tracking like survival skills. The one with the intense, fiery gray-blue eyes and perpetually rumpled clothes—Lev. The one with the calmer gaze and neatly combed hair—Nikolai. Twelve years old and fraternal, but similar enough that I still find myself double-checking the details.
“Whoa!” I laugh, the sound half-startled out of me. “What’s the emergency?”
“You’re late,” Nikolai says, his tone more serious than his brother’s despite his slight smile. “And Lev messed up his science project.”
“I didn’t mess it up,” Lev protests, already tugging at my hand with the confidence of someone who assumes everyone will follow. “The stupid glue didn’t work.”
“You’re just stupid.”
“I’m not!” Lev gives a full-body flail of indignation, shoving his twin’s shoulder with all the righteous fury a 12-year-old can muster. “You didn’t even try to help, Nik!”
Nikolai shrugs, unbothered. “Wasn’t my rocket ship.”
I glance between them, momentarily grateful for the distraction from the storm inside my head. My gaze catches on Lev’s frustrated expression, that fierce look so reminiscent of his father’s intensity but without the coldness.
“Let me see the damage,” I say, letting him pull me toward the kitchen.
Halfway there, a small figure appears in the doorway—sandy blonde hair in perfect braids and a practical outfit of leggings paired with a sparkly jacket. Alya, arms crossed, hip cocked to one side with a book tucked under her elbow like it’s a business proposal she’s about to pitch.
“You’re reading to me tonight,” she announces, not a question but a statement of fact. Her eyes sparkle with the confidence of someone who expects to be obeyed.
It hits me suddenly—how quickly they’ve gotten used to me being here. How easily they’ve folded me into their lives.
Temporary. This is all temporary.
But looking at Alya’s determined little face, I can’t bring myself to say no.
“After dinner,” I say, matching her tone with a firmness of my own.
She narrows her eyes, assessing whether this compromise is acceptable. Then she gives a decisive nod.
“Fine. But with the voices. And I get to choose which book.”
“Deal.”
She watches us for another moment, as if making sure we’re all properly supervised, then marches off, presumably to select her reading material.
The kitchen is chaos.
The marble island is covered with newspaper, craft supplies, and what looks like the remnants of a solar system massacre. Planets of varying sizes lie in disarray, some half-painted, others missing chunks where the papier maché has crumbled.
I scan the room, taking stock.
Konstantin’s mother—the undisputed matriarch of this beautifully miserable household—stands at the sink, aggressively wiping down a counter that already gleams. Her disapproval practically radiates off the marble. Either the kids broke something again, or she just ran out of things she could control.
From the doorway, Oleg appears like a glitch in the matrix. Silent. Stationed. Watching everything with the intensity of someone who has no off switch. His eyes meet mine briefly, just long enough to clock my mood, then shift away.
Great. Whatever meltdown happened here is now logged, tagged, and probably already being summarized for Konstantin in some encrypted nightly report.
“What happened?” I ask, dropping my purse onto a chair.
Anya appears within seconds, practically materializing from thin air like the staff here are trained to detect clutter telepathically. She scoops up the bag with both hands, eyes wide, like it might explode.
“I’ll take this, Mrs. Belov,” she says quickly, already halfway out of the room before I can tell her it’s fine. In this house, nothing stays where you put it. Not even your own damn bag.
Lev springs into action. “I was putting on the rings, but the glue sucked, and then Babushka said—”
“ Babushka said we should just buy a new one,” Nikolai cuts in, climbing onto a barstool like this is a courtroom drama and he’s here to deliver closing arguments. “But Lev freaked out.”
“Did not freak out,” Lev growls, already red in the ears. “I said it’s stupid to buy something you can fix.”
“You just messed it up,” Nikolai murmurs, shooting me a knowing look beyond his years.
“I didn’t mess it up,” Lev protests, grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the kitchen like he’s deputizing me into NASA. “The stupid glue didn’t work.”
“You’re stupid.”
“I’m not!” Lev shoves Nikolai with all the force of a righteous 12-year-old, nearly knocking his twin off the stool. “You didn’t even help!”
I glance between them, silently grateful for the distraction. Lev’s brow is furrowed in frustration, eyes blazing—his father’s fire, but without the frost.
“Let me see if I can help,” I say, letting him drag me toward what I now realize is a solar system diorama.
It’s rough. Saturn’s ring is dangling by what looks like a desperate prayer and half-dried Elmer’s. A glob of glitter is somehow on the ceiling. I don’t ask.
“You need thread, not glue,” I say, crouching down for a better look. “That ring is too heavy.”
Lev’s eyes light up. “You can fix it?”
“Of course she can,” Nikolai says matter-of-factly, like this is obvious. “Bella fixes things.”
I freeze for half a second. Oleg shifts slightly in the background. Not much, but enough. Watching. Noting. Measuring.
I nod like that comment didn’t land square in my chest. Before I can even look around, Oleg is already placing a tray on the counter beside me—thread, scissors, a small sewing kit, even a thimble.
As I start threading the needle. My phone buzzes from inside the pocket of my blazer.
Nope. Not now. Not if it’s her again.
“Okay, NASA,” I say, exhaling. “Watch and learn.”
I start stitching Saturn’s ring back into place. Lev watches, eyes wide, hands fidgeting.
“How do you know how to do that?”
“Used to make Lila’s Halloween costumes. Store-bought was off the table.”
“Why doesn’t she live here?” Lev asks bluntly.
“Boarding school. Super fancy. Lots of math.”
Lev makes a face. “I hate math.”
“You’re good at it when you don’t rush,” I reply without thinking.
He blinks, then gives a tiny, surprised smile.
I finish anchoring the thread, securing the ring to the edge of Saturn with a few tight, invisible stitches. It’s not pretty, but it holds. I hold it up like a trophy.
“One planet saved,” I announce, holding up Saturn.
“Neptune next,” Lev says, pushing it toward me.
Twenty minutes later, we’re in a groove. The boys hand me materials, argue over Pluto’s status as a planet, and continue their ongoing debate about who is smarter. (Spoiler: They both think it’s them.)
It reminds me of Julian when he was younger.
Julian, who’s still waiting for me to introduce him to Konstantin. Julian, who Irina threatened.
The thought makes my hands shake again, but I force myself to focus on the task in front of me.
“Bella?” Nikolai asks. “You okay?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at Jupiter for too long.
“Yes, just thinking about… asteroid placement.”
He nods. “Between Mars and Jupiter.”
I ruffle his hair. He ducks but doesn’t move away.
“Will you help with my science project next week?”
That one hits differently. I don’t answer right away.
Next week. Will I still be here?
“Sure,” I say softly. “What’s the topic?”
“Lie detectors.”
I almost laugh. “Seriously?”
“To catch Lev when he steals my Switch.”
“I was testing battery efficiency,” Lev mutters.
“You were playing Fortnite .”
“Children!” Yelena snaps. “Dinner in five.”
“One more planet!” Lev begs.
I shoot her an apologetic look. “Two minutes.”
She sighs. Disappears.
“Alright, NASA. Let’s wrap this up.”
We finish Mercury, Alya appears with her book, and I know what she wants before she says a word.
“After dinner,” I promise.
“Voices?”
“All the voices.”
Her smile is smug. She spins away.
Dinner passes in a blur. Kids chatter. Yelena slices chicken with battlefield precision. I eat just enough to not raise suspicion.
“Bella sews like a surgeon,” Lev brags.
“Just basic stitches,” I mumble.
“Can you make me dragon wings?”
I blink. “Sure. What color?”
“Red. No. Black. No. Black with red fire!”
I smile, then glance at Konstantin’s empty chair.
For a moment, I wish he were here. Even if he barely speaks at dinner, even if he stays stone-faced in front of the kids, there’s something in the way he watches them—protective, precise, almost reverent. It’s not soft, not obvious, but it’s real. And I see it. The kind of love that doesn’t need words, just presence.
And somehow, I believe he is.
Forty minutes later, we sit in the living room. Alya cuddled against me, boys pretending they’re not into the story.
“Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin—”
“Scarier,” Nikolai critiques.
I give it everything. Alya squeals. Even Lev cracks a grin.
“Better,” Nikolai admits.
We finish the book. Alya claps.
“Again?”
“Bedtime,” Yelena announces.
“Five minutes?” Lev tries.
“No exceptions.”
Alya kisses my cheek. Yelena notices. Doesn’t comment. The boys say goodnight. Then they’re gone.
I’m alone. The room too quiet.
My phone buzzes.
I pull my phone from inside my blazer pocket, thumb already dreading what’s on the screen.
Unknown number.
Friday. 12 p.m. Old Marina Car Park, West Exit. Come alone.
My breath catches.
I just lock the screen fast, like that might stop the words from burning a hole through my jacket.
I hear Yelena’s footsteps returning down the hall, and I quickly set the book on the shelf. She appears in the doorway, giving me a small nod.
“The children are in bed,” she says. “Would you like tea?”
It’s the closest thing to warmth I’ve gotten from her since I arrived. The unexpected kindness makes my chest hurt.
“No, thank you. I think I’ll just go to bed.”
She studies me, and for a second, I wonder if she sees it—the fear, the panic, all the things I’m trying to hide.
“You’re good with them,” she says finally. “The children.”
I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “They’re good kids.”
“Yes.” She nods. “Not many women would take to them so quickly.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “I practically raised Julian and Lila. Not so different.”
“And yet, very different.”
We stand there, the silence stretching between us. I want to tell her. I want to ask for help, for advice, for anything.
But I can’t. Not when Julian and Lila’s safety hangs in the balance.
“Konstantin called,” she says suddenly. “While you were reading to Alya.”
My heart stops, then races double-time. “Oh?”
“He wanted to know if everything was all right here.” Her eyes study me carefully. “I told him yes. Was that correct?”
The question feels loaded, like she’s giving me an opening.
The lie burns my tongue. “Yes. Everything’s fine.”
She nods once, not looking entirely convinced. “He will return when his business is concluded.”
No specifics. Just like Oleg. Everyone in this house trained to reveal nothing.
“Thank you for letting me know.”
“Good night.”
“Good night,” I whisper.
In my room, I sit on the bed and let the panic in.
Friday. 12 p.m. Old Marina Car Park, West Exit. Come alone.
Thirty-six hours.
That’s all I have to decide which version of hell I’m walking into.