43. Chapter 43
43
Konstantin
I can’t remember the last time I slept this well.
Hell, I can’t remember the last time I actually slept. Not passed out from vodka or sedatives. Not crashing after a forty-eight-hour meeting streak across continents. Real sleep. The kind that creeps in slowly and stays like it has nowhere better to be.
My body feels… wrong. Too soft. Too warm. Like something in me uncoiled during the night and forgot to tighten back up. I shift and blink against the morning light filtering through the curtains.
She’s not here.
She shouldn’t be, I remind myself. No one stays.
I don’t do sleepovers. I don’t do warm bodies tangled in sheets like some goddamn rom-com. I don’t wake up to anyone still in my bed because that implies softness. Permanence. And in my world, both get you killed.
But last night… she didn’t move. Curled beside me like it was nothing.
And I let her.
Worse—I wanted her there.
The spot beside me is empty but not cold. Her scent lingers—orange blossom and skin. I press my palm to where her hip was, like my hand is hoping she’ll still be there. But she’s not.
Then I hear it.
“Papa! Are you hiding?”
Alya’s voice ricochets through the hall like a damn parade. Before I can respond, the door bursts open, and my daughter, barefoot and beaming, flies into the room like she owns it.
“Found you!” she announces, like this is some elaborate game.
I sit up, still half-stuck in the quiet she left behind, and glance at the bedside clock—7:12 a.m., too damn early for this energy.
“You’re supposed to be at breakfast,” I say, voice hoarse, pulling the sheet higher over my lap to cover the evidence of last night.
Alya climbs onto the bed, undeterred, her sparkly pajama top catching the light.
“I ate already. Mariya made pancakes, but Lev spilled syrup on Nikolai’s math book, so they’re fighting again.”
She rolls her eyes, like she’s above such chaos, then fixes me with a look.
“You promised, Papa.”
“What did I promise?” I grunt, pulling the sheet further up over my lap.
“You said we’re going bag shopping today,” she says like it’s a legal contract. “For school next week. I need the perfect bag for my first day!”
I rub a hand down my face, stubble scratching my palm. She’s right. Damn it. Her excitement—those wide gray-blue eyes practically glowing about starting “real school” for the first time —hits me square in the chest. I kept her home for years, shielded from the world I run, but Bella’s voice kept echoing: She needs friends, needs normal. And I gave in, letting Alya have this, starting next week.
“You skipped lessons to go shopping?” I ask, raising a brow.
“I rescheduled them,” she says, matter-of-fact, like she’s already Pakhan .
“You let her do that?” I call out to her nanny, who’s been waiting outside the room.
“I tried to stop her, Konstantin Yaroslavovich, ” Mariya, Alya’s nanny shouts back from the hallway, already exasperated. “She said it was urgent.”
Christ. I rub my eyes.
Alya’s off the bed before I can say anything, already halfway to the door, her socks skidding across the floor like she’s practicing for the Olympics.
“Alya.”
She stops—but only because she’s calculating if she can outrun whatever I’m about to say.
I tilt my head. “You ate, so get ready to go. Shoes on, and you’re not hitting the stores in those glitter pajamas. Change into something that doesn’t blind me.”
She makes a face, one hand on her hip like she’s brokering a deal.
“These are cute, Papa. And I was gonna change! I just want the bag first!”
“Doesn’t work like that,” I say, voice low, steady. “Shoes. Clothes. Then we shop for that bag.”
“But you promised we’re going today,” she insists, her voice rising with 8-year-old fire, her excitement for school next week spilling over.
“And I don’t break promises,” I say, a smirk tugging at my lips despite myself. “But you don’t get to run this show. Go. Move.”
“Ugh, fine,” she mutters, already bolting down the hall.
From somewhere downstairs, Mariya bellows back, “They were not dry; they were perfectly fine, Alyushka !”
I stare at the door for a second, then sigh.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My body protests—too relaxed, too unfamiliar with softness. My spine doesn’t ache. My jaw isn’t tight. And it pisses me off how good that feels.
It was supposed to be just sex.
I told myself that when I pulled her into my bed. When I pulled her apart with my hands and mouth until she couldn’t think. I needed the release. Needed control.
Now that I’ve had her—my body craves more.
Which is precisely why I should’ve stopped.
Instead, I slept. Like a fucking fool. Slept so deeply I didn’t hear her leave.
And she’s hiding something.
She didn’t tell me about the phone call. The call from someone.
I stand, dragging the sheet off with me as I walk toward the bathroom. The wood is cool underfoot, smooth and silent, like it’s listening. I flick on the light.
The mirror stares back.
Hair tousled. Jaw shadowed.
I twist the tap and let the water run cold. Splash once. Twice. Press my hands flat against the marble sink. The water drips from my chin to my collarbone. My pulse still hasn’t settled.
I look up again.
I look like a man who let his guard down. Like someone who let softness crawl in where it doesn’t belong.
She had every chance to say something. And she didn’t.
Which means she’s keeping secrets.
Which means we’ve got a problem.
Because I don’t do trust. I do control. And if she thinks she can lie to me and still sleep in my bed?
She’s about to learn what it means to keep secrets from the wrong fucking man.
Twenty minutes later, I’m striding down the floating staircase, the estate’s black marble floors gleaming under my boots. I’ve traded last night’s vulnerability for something sharper—tailored black linen trousers, a fitted charcoal Henley that hugs my chest, sleeves pushed to my elbows, and a Patek Philippe watch glinting at my wrist. No suit today. I’m home, but I’m still Konstantin Belov, and this house bends to me, not the other way around. The air smells of coffee and chaos, a faint trace of maple syrup lingering from the kids’ breakfast.
I push through the glass door to the chef’s kitchen, and the scene hits me like a shot of vodka—warm, disarming, and dangerously distracting. The matte black island is a warzone of pancake crumbs and orange juice glasses, the wine wall casting amber flecks across the marble.
Oleg stands by the Sub-Zero fridges, arms crossed, his shaved head catching the morning light as he murmurs something to Yelena, who’s wiping the counter with battlefield precision. Nikolai and Lev are at the island, Lev waving a syrup-sticky spoon like a conductor while Nikolai scribbles in a notebook, muttering about “stupid equations.”
Alya’s perched on a stool, her sparkly pajamas now swapped for a purple dress with a glittery star pattern—her “shopping outfit,” no doubt—dictating a shopping list to Mariya, who’s nodding like she’s negotiating a truce.
And then there’s Bella.
She’s at the far end of the island, leaning over to tie Lev’s sneaker, her hair spilling in dark waves over one shoulder.
Her dress—fuck, that dress—is a soft, emerald-green wrap that clings to her curves, the neckline dipping just enough to make my pulse kick, the hem brushing her thighs like it’s daring me to remember how they felt under my hands last night. The fabric catches the light, shimmering faintly, and for a second, I’m back in my bed, her moans echoing, her nails digging into my back. She straightens, laughing at something Lev says, and the sound is so unguarded it cracks something in me.
I stop in the doorway, my jaw tightening.
I’m supposed to be pissed. She’s keeping secrets—the call she didn’t mention.
But watching her here, with my kids, in my kitchen, looking like she belongs—it’s fucking with my head. Nikolai glances up, spots me, and nudges Lev, who drops the spoon with a clatter.
“Papa!” Alya spins on her stool, her purple dress flaring. “You’re late! We’re almost ready to go shopping, and you’re still—” She waves a hand at me, like I’m the one holding up the operation.
“Late?” I raise a brow, stepping into the room, my boots silent on the heated marble. “It’s not even eight yet.” I look at my watch and back at my daughter.
Alya grins, unrepentant. “It’s strategic. Like you always say. I need a pink bag to make friends.”
Bella’s eyes flick to me, and for a split second, they hold—dark, searching, remembering.
Her lips part just enough to make my blood heat.
Then she looks away, tucking a curl behind her ear, and the motion is so damn innocent it makes me want to pin her against the island and remind her how not innocent she was last night.
“Papa,” Nikolai says, stepping toward me, his backpack already slung over one shoulder. “You and Bella are taking us to school?”
I glance over at Bella. She’s near the fridge, holding Lev’s water bottle like it belongs in her hand, nodding at Oleg as he passes by with a clipboard and a half-smile. The kind of smile I haven’t seen on him since… ever.
“Yes,” I say, keeping my tone even. “We are.”
Nikolai’s eyes light up. “Seriously?”
“Don’t make it weird,” Lev mutters from the counter, but he doesn’t move away when Bella rests a hand briefly on his shoulder. Doesn’t shrug her off like usual. He just keeps eating, like the whole thing is normal. Like he doesn’t need to brace himself for the world outside.
They’ve never had this.
Not both parents in the kitchen. Not warmth. Not a woman humming softly while folding napkins with one hand and checking Alya’s socks with the other.
Not this much… quiet joy.
The maids are smiling. Even Oleg’s lips twitch when Alya announces she needs “sparkly snacks” for recess, and Bella actually writes it down like it’s a real thing.
And me?
I’m standing here like a stranger in my own house. Like I stepped into a life that isn’t mine.
Because I didn’t grow up like this.
My father didn’t take me to school. My mother never packed lunches. We had handlers. Tutors. Expectations. Love was leverage. Attention was currency. Every gesture meant something, and softness wasn’t survival—it was a liability.
But this?
This is something else.
“Lev,” Bella says, handing him his bottle, “if you don’t drink water today, I’m telling your coach you’re dehydrated and making you run laps.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s the ghost of a smile when he turns toward the door.
“Papa,” Alya calls, twirling her dress again. “I wore purple ‘cause that’s your favorite.”
“It’s black.”
“Well, you said purple’s close enough when you’re in a good mood.”
I blink. That conversation happened months ago. I didn’t think she remembered. I didn’t think I remembered.
Bella’s eyes flick to mine again. And this time, she doesn’t look away.
This—whatever this is—it’s changing things.
And I don’t know if I want it to.
Because change means risk. And risk means weakness. And weakness gets people hurt.
But watching my daughter skip down the hallway, watching Lev and Nikolai bicker over the front seat like it matters, hearing Bella’s laughter echo in my kitchen—
It doesn’t feel weak.
It feels like something I never thought I’d get.
And I have no fucking idea what to do with that.