56. Chapter 56
56
Bella
“ Y ou sure this doesn’t make me look like I’m trying too hard not to fall apart?”
Anya tilts her head, holding up the hand mirror like it’s a verdict. “You look… presentable.”
“So, desperate but color-coordinated. Got it.”
She doesn’t rise to the bait. Just smooths the fabric of the lavender wrap dress she made me wear like she’s dressing a broken doll. It’s soft and floaty and fits like it was custom-made to trap feelings. There’s a silk ribbon in my hair, too, tied in a bow at the back. Subtle. Feminine. A lie wrapped in lavender.
I look like a woman who has her shit together.
I am not that woman.
I am, instead, a woman who is officially, medically, terrifyingly pregnant.
“Master Belov has returned,” Anya says, like she’s announcing the arrival of royalty. Or doom. Possibly both.
“Okay. Great. That’s perfect,” I mutter to no one.
My voice sounds like it’s been wrung out and left to dry on a wire hanger. Exactly how I feel.
Naturally. Because the universe likes to pile on. Because fate has a flair for drama. Because right on cue, like my life is a mafia-themed soap opera, the man I most do not want to deal with while navigating potential motherhood is downstairs.
Anya moves toward me with a gentleness that makes me want to flinch. “May I?” she asks, already crouching beside the bed.
I nod, bracing myself.
She lifts the edge of the lavender dress and carefully peels back the soft fabric from my upper thigh. The stitches are still there—small, tight, the kind of handiwork that says Dr. Katya doesn’t mess around. The scar looks like a thin line drawn by a scalpel and regret.
“It’s healing well,” Anya says, her fingertips hovering just above the skin, not touching. “There’s still swelling, but the inflammation’s gone down.”
I hum, noncommittal, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might have answers.
I want to say thank you. I want to say something normal. But all I can think is:
This is the least of it.
The stitched-up wreckage on my thigh? Manageable. Visible. Fixable.
It’s the hidden damage that’s spiraling.
Inside me, there’s something growing. Something no one’s supposed to know about.
Yelena’s voice rings again in my head—clipped, cold, surgical:
“No one can know. Not yet. Especially not Konstantin.”
And now—now I know.
“You want me to get you some water, Mrs. Belov?” Anya’s voice floats over, too gentle, too considerate, which makes me suspicious.
She’s hovering a little too close now. Her eyes flick to my face, then my hands, like she’s scanning for vitals. It’s the look nurses give before someone faints at a blood drive. The way her brows pinch slightly, the way her body stays half-turned like she’s ready to catch me—
Oh.
I must look like I’m about to pass out.
And honestly? I might.
“Water. Maybe some chocolate. Or an alternate reality, if you’ve got one in the pantry.”
She smiles. That kind of smile people use when they know you’re spiraling but are too polite to ask. I nod anyway, needing the space.
When she disappears into the hallway, I move toward the dresser, the muscles in my shoulders tightening with each swing of the crutches. My left arm’s still sore from catching myself last week, and the padded grips are slick with just enough sweat to make them annoying. I’m still favoring the ankle I wrecked in the crash, and every movement sends a dull ache up my leg. It’s the kind of pain that’s settled in like a long-term tenant.
Beneath my socks, wedged under a bundle of receipts and a hairbrush missing half its bristles, is the plastic bag.
The test.
I pull it out with my good hand, fingers closing around it like it might bite. The plastic crinkles softly, stupidly innocent. My grip tightens until the edges press into my palm.
This is it.
The thing that turned my whole life into a countdown clock I didn’t know was ticking.
I stand there for a second, frozen. Then, I lower myself carefully onto the edge of the bed, biting back a wince as my ankle flares up.
Okay. Think.
Yelena doesn’t want him to know. That’s very clear.
My stomach twists, and not in the morning-sickness way. This is more of a holy-shit-I’m-growing-a-human-inside-me-and-everyone-around-me-might-be-a-psychopath kind of twist.
If I tell Konstantin, what happens?
Scenario A: He says we’ll deal with it together. Very mafia-father-knows-best vibes.
Maybe it’ll be okay.
Maybe he’ll even be… happy?
Okay, probably not happy, but at least not homicidal. Right?
Scenario B: He tells me this changes everything. He pulls out the marriage contract, rips it in half, and sends me packing—with a check and…
Or worse—he doesn’t want another baby.
That thought punches the air from my lungs.
I press a hand to my stomach without thinking, like I can shield it from even the idea. The pain of that possibility—that he’d choose not to want this—hurts more than I can explain.
Shit. More than I want to admit.
I close my eyes. Breathe. Try to remember who the hell I was a month ago, before this house, before this deal, before Konstantin and his ghost-painting and his ridiculous mansion on the edge of the world.
Who made one stupid, reckless decision on one unlucky night… Who thought it was a good idea to lie down on a stranger’s bed, high, alone, turned on, and stare at a damn portrait like it was going to whisper sweet nothings back.
Jesus.
God! I want tacos. I want greasy, crunchy, melt-in-your-mouth carne asada tacos with that lime crema and—
Wait, I can’t eat tacos. I mean, I can. But what if the baby hates spice? What if I eat something wrong, and it grows two heads? What if I already screwed it up by being too stressed?
Another text from Elena buzzes my phone.
ELENA: ARE YOU DEAD OR JUST IGNORING ME ON PURPOSE?
ELENA: I WILL SEND K-POP BOYS TO YOUR DOOR. I’M NOT ABOVE THIS.
ELENA: … Also, how’s the fetus?
I don’t reply.
Because I don’t know.
I clutch my stomach, absurdly expecting to feel something. A sign. A flutter. Anything.
I get a cramp.
Which sends me into a whole new spiral about ectopic pregnancy and miscarriage, and, Jesus, what if I’m already failing at this?
“Mrs. Belov?” Anya’s voice drifts in, followed by a light knock. “Oleg says dinner is almost served, so… no chocolate for now.” She peeks in, tentative.
I blink at her. My brain short-circuits a little, still spinning from the cramp and the fact that Oleg has apparently become the dessert police.
“Okay, that’s… okay,” I manage, then blurt out the only thing that makes any sense in my food-deprived, hormone-fried brain. “Are there any taco stands near here?”
She pauses like I just asked her for the nuclear codes. “Taco… stalls?”
I nod solemnly because what else is there? “Preferably greasy. Questionably inspected. Bonus points if the salsa can melt steel.”
Anya actually considers it. Bless her. She tilts her head slightly and says, “I’m…not sure. But I can ask one of the drivers later, if you’d like.”
I shake my head gently. “Nah. It’s fine. I’ll be out there in a minute.”
She gives me a look—half concerned, half trying not to hover—but she nods.
“Alright. I’ll wait outside.” She disappears again.
I press my back against the headboard and pull the blanket up. It smells like jasmine and the cologne Konstantin left on the pillows last week. I’d rolled my eyes back then. Now I inhale like it’s oxygen.
I don’t know when I made the decision, only that it’s crawling up from my gut and wrapping itself around my spine like armor.
I will not give this baby up.
Mafia or not. Marriage contract or not. Whether Konstantin stays or goes or calls the Bratva HR department to file a complaint about unauthorized pregnancies—
I’m keeping this baby.
I will tell Konstantin.
Not tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. But soon. In person. Face-to-face. No lies. No hiding. He deserves that.
And my baby deserves me at my fiercest.
No one—not even a Belov matriarch with murder eyeliner—is going to take that away.
Even if I have to burn this whole place down.