59. Chapter 59
59
Bella
T he car ride back is silent.
Not the good kind. Not the comfortable, we’re-on-the-same-wavelength kind. This is the kind of quiet that scratches at your skin. That reminds you how long the drive really is when you’re sitting next to someone who just tasted your mouth and then told you not to read into it.
Viktor’s at the wheel. Eyes on the road. Hands at ten and two like he’s chauffeuring the corpses of two people who used to be something.
I stare out the window. The glass is cold. So is the air between us.
Konstantin’s on his phone, fingers gliding across the screen with military efficiency.
I shift in my seat, lean back against the leather, and tell myself not to look at him.
I fail.
Out of the corner of my eye, I steal a glance—quick, like maybe I’m checking the time or the streetlights.
His side profile hits hard—sandy blonde hair clipped short, jaw sharp under a dark beard, tattoos peeking above his collar, all 6’4” of him too damn handsome for a man so alone. His lashes are dark, unfairly so, and he has that stillness—like he could strangle someone mid-sentence and not spill a drop of blood on his cuff.
But that’s not what gets me.
What gets me is how lonely he looks. Detached. Unreachable. Like he’s already halfway gone, even when he’s sitting right there.
I sigh.
A fucking lonely, handsome man.
Which—just great—only makes women want him more. Apparently, emotional isolation is catnip.
And the worst part? I get it. I see it now. And I hate that I want to reach for it.
Like some wounded little girl who thinks if she touches it, she won’t feel so alone herself.
He shifts slightly. Tilts his head.
Our eyes lock in the tinted reflection.
I don’t know if he caught me staring or if he was doing the same, but for one long, stupid second, neither of us looks away.
His gaze doesn’t soften. Mine probably does.
Then my stomach twists—not because of him, but because I remember. The nausea. The cramps. The quiet terror curled beneath my ribs.
I look away first.
Not because I’m embarrassed. But because I’m angry that part of me wanted something from him in that moment. Comfort. Connection. A flicker of something real.
Not that I’m expecting tenderness. I’m not that delusional. But a text or two less right now might’ve been nice. Maybe a sideways look. Anything to suggest I didn’t hallucinate that kiss. That moment. That flicker of something I mistook for warmth.
But no.
He’s ice. And I’m… apparently stupid.
Stupid for kissing him.
Stupid for wanting him to kiss me back.
And even more stupid for how he did.
Because it wasn’t just a kiss. Not that kind. He kissed me like I mattered. Like he needed it. Like something inside him cracked open and poured into me—hot and aching and real.
That wasn’t just lust. That wasn’t just heat.
It felt like more.
And maybe that’s the worst part.
Because what if I didn’t imagine it?
What if, for one second, he did care—and still chose to pull away?
That’s the kind of rejection you don’t come back from.
The kind that seeps into your bones and makes you question everything, even the parts that felt real. Especially the parts that felt real.
For chasing softness in a man who warned me, in every way that counts, that he’s carved from something colder.
Stupid for being in this car. In this life.
And really stupid for getting pregnant by someone who won’t even look at me now.
I press my knuckles against my lips, as if that’ll keep the nausea down—or the panic. Neither listens.
You’re not telling him.
This isn’t forever. This isn’t a home. It’s a transaction with heated moments and expiration dates. He made that part clear.
I blink fast, but the memory still creeps in.
My mother’s voice, from a thousand years ago, when my biggest problem was nail polish colors and whether my karaoke machine worked. “All babies are gifts, Bella,” she said once, pressing a kiss to my forehead while folding tiny socks into even tinier piles. “Even the ones who show up at the wrong time. Especially those.”
I was 9. I didn’t understand then.
I do now.
God, do I.
I shift, clutching the purse tighter against my stomach. My ribs pull uncomfortably from the motion. My leg protests under the brace. Still swollen. Still bruised. Still his fault.
He didn’t help me into the car.
Didn’t even ask.
Just watched me fumble with the door, struggle with the crutches, wince through the motion like it wasn’t killing me to pretend I could still handle it.
My heart drops again. Lower this time. Maybe it’s finally found the floor.
You’re not his wife , I remind myself. You’re a placeholder in a suit.
A convenient solution with good bone structure and siblings that needed saving. I made a deal. This isn’t love. This isn’t care. This isn’t anything.
So why does it hurt?
Why do I feel nauseous?
I breathe shallowly, slow through the nose, because the rolling sensation in my stomach is starting to get hard to ignore. Oil, I tell myself. The carnitas were greasy. I’m exhausted. My body’s been through hell, and I’m on painkillers. Hormones are wrecked.
Except I know my body.
And this doesn’t feel like tacos.
This feels like…
Oh God.
I glance sideways at him.
He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.
It’s not like I can tell him: “Hey, remember that moment you shut down like a well-oiled machine and made it very clear this marriage is temporary? Well, plot twist: I might be permanently pregnant.”
Yeah. That’ll go over great.
I press my hand against my stomach. Not protectively. Just… grounding. A desperate kind of hope that the tight cramp I just felt is all in my head.
It’s not.
And now that the thought’s there, it’s all I can think about. The missed period. The way smells are too strong. The crying I did two days ago over an insurance commercial.
The tests.
It’s all waiting for me.
God. I want Elena. I want her voice. Her swearing. Her hand to squeeze while I pace around the room like a feral cat. She’d tell me what to do. Or at least lie and say it’ll be fine.
The car rolls through the Belov gates, and my chest tightens. The mansion used to feel like the safest bad decision I’d ever made. Now it feels like a gilded cage. Like I’m walking back into something I can’t undo.
Viktor parks without a word.
Konstantin steps out first. Doesn’t wait for me. Doesn’t offer a hand. Just walks up the steps like I’m not limping behind him with a baby in my uterus and my pride in a blender.
I climb out slower. My hip throbs. The pain flares hot, then settles into a dull roar. I make it to my room by sheer will, my fingers fumbling with the doorknob, my eyes burning from effort I won’t let show.
Inside, I shut the door and press my back against it. Close my eyes.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
I limp to the dresser, heart pounding like it already knows what I don’t want to confirm. The top drawer creaks open, and I shove past the clutter.
The plastic bag should be there.
It’s always there.
I lift the socks. Dig deeper. My fingers find nothing but cotton and wood.
I pause. Blink. Check again.
No plastic. No box. No test.
I crouch down, tearing through the drawer like maybe I hid it deeper than I thought. Like maybe exhaustion and adrenaline made me sloppy.
But I know this drawer. I know my mess.
And it’s been touched.
The receipt pile’s been shifted. The hairbrush is sideways instead of tucked. Someone was in here. Not rummaging. Not frantic. No. This was quiet. Careful. Intentional.
I open the second drawer. Check the nightstand. The trash. The bottom of my bag. My panic starts to rise with every empty glance.
It’s gone.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I grab it instantly, heart leaping. Julian.
I let it ring.
Because my brain can’t function right now—not with my hands still in the drawer, still patting over the same empty spot like the test might magically reappear if I just want it hard enough.
I stare at the drawer. Then check the trash. Then the makeup bag. Nothing.
I turn in a slow circle, panic rising like heat under my skin.
And that’s when it hits me.
Someone’s been in here.
And they know that I know.