48. Chapter 48
48
Bella
T he sun hits the water just right, turning it into a sheet of diamonds that hurts my eyes. Dad says that’s how you know you’re looking at something valuable—it makes you squint.
“Higher, Bella!” Julian squeals, his chubby 4-year-old legs kicking at the air as I push his swing.
“Any higher, and you’ll touch the clouds,” I laugh, giving him another push. His curls bounce with each arc, catching sunlight like they’re made of copper pennies.
Mom watches from the blanket spread across the sand, one hand resting on her swollen belly, the other shading her eyes. She’s beautiful in that easy way that makes photographers on the street stop and ask if she’s ever modeled. She never has. Says teaching kindergarten is glamorous enough, thank you very much.
“Don’t break my son, Bella,” she calls, but she’s smiling. She always smiles when she watches us together.
“I’m gonna touch the SKY!” Julian announces with the confidence only toddlers possess.
I push him again, carefully calculating the exact amount of force needed to thrill him without actually endangering my little brother. I’ve gotten good at this balance—at being the fun big sister while keeping him safe. It’s my job.
“Mommy thinks it’s a girl,” I tell Julian as he swings back to me. “You’re getting a sister.”
“No!” Julian kicks his legs harder. “Brother!”
“Sorry, buddy. Mom’s got the magic touch. She knew you were a boy before the doctors did.” I catch the swing on its return, slowing it down. “We need to pick a name. You want to help?”
Julian nods solemnly, his face suddenly serious with the responsibility. I lift him out of the swing and set him on my hip, carrying him back toward Mom. He’s getting too big for this, but I don’t care. He still fits perfectly against my side, like he’s meant to be there.
“We’re naming the baby,” I announce, flopping down on the blanket beside Mom.
She laughs, the sound like wind chimes on a summer evening. “Oh, are we? And what names are we considering?”
Julian presses his hands against Mom’s belly. “Dinosaur.”
“Hmm, interesting choice,” Mom says with mock seriousness. “Dinosaur Marquez. Has a certain prehistoric charm.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “Mom, be serious. We need a good name.”
“I am being serious! Nothing says ‘strong woman’ like being named after a Tyrannosaurus Rex.”
Mom reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear—a gesture so familiar it’s written into my DNA. Her touch lingers on my cheek, and something warm and safe washes through me.
“What would you name her, Bella?” she asks, her voice softening.
I consider this, leaning back on my elbows and staring at the endless blue sky.
“Something pretty. Something that sounds like it belongs to someone who’d do important things.”
“Like Bella,” Mom says, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “My beautiful girl who’s going to change the world.”
I feel myself blush. At 15, I’m too old for this kind of mom-praise, but something in me soaks it up anyway, storing it somewhere deep and vital.
“Dad wanted to name me after a Jane Austen character,” I remind her. “Elizabeth or Emma or something.”
“Your father and his literature.” Mom laughs, rubbing her belly in slow circles. “He’d have every child named after someone who died tragically in a nineteenth-century novel if I let him.”
Julian, bored with name talk, starts digging in the sand with a plastic shovel. I watch him, feeling that familiar big-sister protectiveness wash over me.
“Hey, Mom?” I ask, suddenly serious. “How did you know Dad was… you know, the one?”
Mom’s eyes light up, and she leans back, a secretive smile playing on her lips.
“Oh, now that’s a question with a complicated answer.”
“I’ve got time,” I say, reaching for the water bottle in our beach bag.
“Well,” she begins, her voice taking on that storytelling quality I love, “it wasn’t one big moment. It was all these tiny moments strung together. Like how he always remembered which books I’d already read. Or how he’d make coffee for my study group during finals week without being asked.”
“That’s it? Coffee and books?”
Mom shakes her head, looking past me toward the water. “No, that’s not it. It was how safe I felt with him. Not just physically safe—though your father would move mountains to protect his family—but emotionally safe. Like I could be my whole, messy self, and he’d still look at me like I hung the moon.”
She turns back to me, suddenly serious. “That’s what you look for someday, Bella. Not grand gestures or fairy tales. Find someone who makes you feel safe enough to be exactly who you are. Who protects what matters to you because it matters to you.”
“Like how Dad taught me to shoot last month because I was scared after those break-ins down the street?”
Mom rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Yes, like how your literature professor father somehow knows how to handle firearms with military precision. One of his many mysteries.” She leans closer. “Just promise me you’ll remember that protection isn’t about control. The right person protects you while helping you stand on your own.”
Julian crawls over, dumping a handful of sand onto my legs.
“Bella! Sandcastle time!”
I start to brush the sand away, but a sudden pain slices through my temple—sharp, disorienting.
“Bella?” Mom’s voice sounds distant now, worried. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
The pain intensifies, throbbing behind my eyes. The beach seems to waver, the colors bleeding together. Mom reaches for me, but her hand passes through mine like smoke.
“Mom?” I try to grasp her fingers, but she’s fading.
Julian’s laughter turns hollow, echoing strangely. The sun dims. The waves freeze mid-crash.
“Don’t go,” I whisper, reaching for her again. “Please, don’t—”
Another stab of pain—blinding, white-hot. I feel myself falling backward, the beach dissolving around me.
Smoke. Thick and acrid. Burning my lungs.
Pain explodes across my body, a constellation of agony that has no beginning or end. My head throbs. My arm hangs at a wrong angle. Everything hurts.
Not the beach. Not 15. Not safe.
The memory of my mother’s face flickers and dies, replaced by twisted metal and shattered glass. I’m not sitting on a sun-drenched blanket beside my pregnant mother. I’m trapped in the wreckage of a car that tumbled down a cliff.
And no one is coming to—
An impact rocks the crumpled car, jolting me back to full consciousness with a gasp of pain. The vehicle groans, settling deeper into the rocks.
Voices filter through the broken windows. Harsh, urgent Russian. A different dialect than my kidnappers’. More commanding. More controlled.
I force my head up—barely—and through the spiderweb of broken glass, I see shadows moving. Boots pounding the ground. One of the doors wrenches open with a scream of torn hinges.
A rough hand grabs my arm.
I thrash weakly, panic surging hot through my broken body.
“Easy,” a voice growls. Deep. Familiar. Viktor.
Another hand—steadier—cuts through the plastic binding my wrists. The sudden slackness makes me sob out loud. Pain. Relief. Too tangled to tell them apart.
“Got her!” someone barks.
Strong arms yank me free, dragging me backward through the wreckage. The world spins. Smoke fills my lungs. I cough, choking, clawing uselessly at the air.
A man—one of the kidnappers—lunges out from the other side of the wreck, blood pouring from his head, screaming in rage.
A gunshot cracks the air.
The man drops like a puppet with its strings cut.
Viktor doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance at the fallen kidnapper. His focus stays locked on me.
Timur leans in, wiping blood from my forehead with the edge of his sleeve.
“She’s bleeding. Bad.”
I try to speak. To say something. Anything.
Nothing comes out but a raw gasp.
Movement—behind them. A darker shape. Bigger.
Konstantin.
My heart stops.
He’s coming toward me, fast and terrifying and silent. His face carved out of stone. His jacket flaring behind him with every stride.
I want to hide. I want to collapse against him and never move again. I can’t decide which. I can’t move at all.
Konstantin drops to one knee in front of me. His hands—big, rough, furious—cup my face with terrifying gentleness. His thumb brushes my split lip and my bleeding temple, like he’s memorizing every wound.
His breath saws through his chest. His eyes—those cold, silver-blue eyes—burn.
He says nothing.
He just lifts me.
One easy, brutal motion—like I’m weightless.
I sag against him, my head falling into the curve of his neck. I can feel the tension vibrating under his skin, the raw fury barely contained.
Not at me.
At them.
At himself.
I’m sorry , I think, but I can’t make the words.
His arms tighten around me like a vise.
“Get the car ready!” he barks over his shoulder. His voice is a whip crack.
His men scatter, moving fast, clearing the path.
Konstantin doesn’t even look back. He carries me like I’m something precious and broken, and the world around us can burn for all he cares.
I squeeze my eyes shut and hold on.
The memory of my mother’s words echoes through the pain: Find someone who makes you feel safe enough to be exactly who you are. Who protects what matters to you because it matters to you.
As Konstantin’s heartbeat thunders against my cheek—steady, certain, alive—I wonder if this is what she meant.
If only I’d trusted him sooner.