61. Chapter 61
61
Bella
T he garden is ridiculous. That’s the only word for it.
Terraced rows of sculpted hedges and ancient cypress trees roll down into a valley like someone commissioned Versailles, then added extra zeros to the budget just for fun.
I stand at the edge of the stone pathway, phone pressed to my ear, carefully shifting my weight from my good leg to my healing one. The dull throb is still there—a constant reminder of what happened—but Dr. Nilsson says I’m progressing “remarkably well” for someone who had a hairline fracture. Off crutches doesn’t mean pain-free, though. Each step still requires calculation.
“Say that again?” I whisper, glancing over my shoulder. “He does what with the what now?”
Elena’s laugh crackles through the speaker. “Tantric breathing while hanging upside down from aerial silks. Trevor says it opens your third eye and your tight hamstrings at the same time.”
“That’s… innovative.” I shuffle farther down the path, wincing slightly as my ankle protests at the uneven stone. This house has more surveillance than a maximum-security prison—except prettier and with better food. “And how many followers does Cirque du Soleil Romeo have?”
“Three million on Instagram. Six on TikTok. His algorithm is karma-based.”
I pause near a stone bench, grateful for the excuse to sit down. The pain is manageable but persistent, like a seatbelt that digs in just enough to remind you that you’re stuck. I ease down carefully, stretching my leg out in front of me.
“He can also hold a headstand for twenty minutes while reciting Sanskrit mantras,” Elena adds, smug.
“And you’re into this now? Is this your yoga era or your ‘spiritually flexible equals physically flexible’ phase?”
“Both. And don’t distract me, Mother . You’re still pregnant, right?”
I freeze. “Keep your voice down.”
“Jesus, Bella. It’s just me.”
“Yeah, well, just me could be Oleg disguised as a satellite dish. These walls have ears. And probably a mole with a drone license.”
“Okay, paranoid . But also—congrats? Shouldn’t I be sending you a creepy baby-shaped cake or something?”
I let out a long breath, staring across the garden as the sun sinks like it’s staging a dramatic exit.
“Honestly? It still doesn’t feel real.”
“Because he doesn’t know?”
“Because I’m sitting in a mob boss’s botanical paradise with my leg half-broken and my hormones doing cartwheels while the father of said fetus disappears for eleven days without a word.”
“Eleven days,” Elena repeats. “Not that you’re counting.”
“I’m absolutely counting,” I mutter. “It’s been eleven days since he’s even looked at me. Eleven days since he spoke to me. Not even a ‘how’s your uterus?’ text.”
She sighs. “So, text him .”
“Text him what ? ‘Hi, it’s me, your silent wife with your secret spawn. Hope arms deals are going great. Also, you left your socks in the dryer.’”
“Bella.”
I snap a photo of the view just to keep my hands busy. The sky’s turning a kind of violent pink-orange, like the universe accidentally spilled wine on its favorite canvas. For a second, the beauty hits me so hard it feels like grief.
“Julian’s getting suspicious,” I say after a pause. “Lila’s fine—she and Alya are attached at the soul—but Julian keeps asking why Konstantin’s never around. I think he knows something’s off. I’ve lied so much I can’t remember which story I fed him last.”
“Tell him the truth. Tell Konstantin the truth.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because the deal ends in less than a year. And he’s made it very clear—we walk away after that. He gets his empire. I get my family home. End of story.”
“Except, surprise,” Elena says dryly, “you’re carrying a plot twist in your pants.”
I laugh, but it’s thin. “You should write bumper stickers.”
She softens. “Seriously. You need to say something. Even if it’s just a ‘Hey, I’m still alive. Also, I might be growing a tiny version of you.’”
I exhale, rubbing the sore spot behind my knee where the ache always settles in the evenings. “You don’t understand.”
“No,” she says. “ You don’t. You think staying silent protects you. But sometimes silence is just a fancier way to self-destruct.”
I don’t respond. Because she’s not wrong. But if I admit that out loud, I’ll fall apart.
And I can’t afford to fall apart. Not when Yelena’s standing on the garden path ahead, hands folded neatly, waiting for me like she’s been there the whole time.
My stomach drops. “I have to go.”
“What? We were just getting to the good part where I convince you to—”
“I’ll call you back.” I end the call, slipping the phone into my pocket and straightening up like I haven’t just been talking about secret pregnancies and tantric circus performers.
She moves toward me. Doesn’t smile.
I force my body to stand fully. “Yelena.”
“Walk with me.”
It’s not a request. I fall into step beside her, slow and careful on my bad leg. The gravel crunches under our feet like it’s aware of the tension. The air smells like citrus blossoms and quiet threats.
“You’re healing well,” she says finally.
“Dr. Nilsson says so, too.”
A beat of silence.
“I know.”
I glance at her. “Know what?”
“That you’re pregnant.”
The breath leaves my lungs like she’s shoved it out with a knife. I stop walking. She doesn’t.
“I saw the tests,” she continues, calm like she’s reading a grocery list. “Two of them. Hidden in your drawer beneath a bundle of socks. I had them removed before the maids could gossip.”
Shame and fury war inside my chest. Not because she found out—because I didn’t even have the chance to tell him first.
“Does Konstantin—”
“No. He does not.”
I catch up to her, limping slightly. “And you don’t want him to.”
Yelena stops at a marble fountain, the kind sculpted to look like it came from some forgotten empire. Her hand trails over the edge, elegant, precise.
“No,” she says. “I do not.”
My throat tightens. “Because you don’t trust me.”
Her gaze flicks to mine. “Because I know exactly what you are.”
And there it is. Finally. The mask she wears so well—perfectly poised matriarch, gentle observer, quiet queen—cracks just enough to show steel beneath.
“You think I’m a gold digger,” I say.
“I think you’re a survivor,” she replies. “Which is infinitely more dangerous.”
I blink.
“You married my son under a contract. You think I didn’t know? I’ve known for weeks.” Her tone isn’t cruel. It’s worse—it’s disappointed. “You may think you’ve played this game well, Isabella. But I was married to a man who played it better than any of you.”
Her eyes narrow—not at me, but at something I can’t see. Something that lives in her past and hasn’t forgiven her.
“I know my son. And I knew his father. Men like them—they fall too easily. They make promises they never planned to keep. They rewrite history in their own favor. I’ve lived long enough to recognize that pattern.”
Her gaze cuts sharper than any blade. “I’ve been in this family for thirty years,” she continues. “I’ve watched Anatoly make the same mistakes over and over. Women who distract him. Women who think they understand the game they’re playing.” Her voice turns bitter. “Women like Tatiana, who wormed their way in with convenient pregnancies and pretty smiles.”
And there it is—the ghost behind all this.
“I’m not Tatiana,” I say, softer now.
“No,” Yelena says thoughtfully. “You’re something more dangerous. You’ve made his children love you. You’ve made him soft .”
Her voice tightens, not with anger—but with something deeper. Regret. Or maybe jealousy.
“You’ve created the illusion of family,” she says, motioning around the garden, the estate, the life that was never supposed to be mine. “But this isn’t your world. These aren’t your people. And Konstantin isn’t your husband—not in any way that matters.”
The truth stings worse than a lie. Because part of me knows she’s right. The rest of me is screaming.
“I imagine you’re wondering what comes next,” she says calmly, brushing a speck of lint from her sleeve. “What happens when Konstantin discovers his contract wife is carrying his child.”
“I haven’t decided if I’m telling him,” I murmur.
Her brow lifts—impressed or amused, I can’t tell. “Of course you haven’t. That’s why I’m here to clarify your options.”
Something in her tone makes me feel 16 again. Small. Out of my league.
“You have two paths before you,” she continues, holding up a single, manicured finger. “Option one: terminate the pregnancy. Quietly. Discreetly. I know a clinic in Switzerland—very exclusive. No records. No questions.”
My hand moves instinctively to my stomach before I can stop it. The tears rise so fast it startles me. I blink up at the sky like that’ll stop them.
She notices. Of course she does—but she does not care.
“Option two,” she says, tone utterly unchanged. “You accept a generous settlement—let’s say five million. You leave the country. New name, new identity. I’ll make sure Konstantin never finds you, and the child never has to know who he was.”
“Why?” I choke out. “Why are you doing this?”
“You have two weeks to decide,” she says coolly. “The succession ceremony is in six days. Once Konstantin becomes Pakhan , there’s no room for personal liabilities. And this—” her eyes drop to my stomach for a fraction of a second, “this is a complication we cannot afford.”
“I’m a complication,” I say bitterly.
“You’re a temporary amusement that’s outlived its purpose.”
The words gut me.
I try to hold steady. To bite the inside of my cheek or blink the heat away. But I can’t stop it.
The tears fall anyway—hot, humiliating, unstoppable. They slip past the defenses I’ve spent months reinforcing. They don’t ask permission. They just fall .
Yelena sees it. Of course she does. But she doesn’t gloat. She doesn’t soften, either.
She steps closer, voice lower now—intimate in a way that burns. “Don’t fool yourself, dear. This was never meant to be real.”
My chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with my healing ribs.
“Two weeks,” she says again, straightening. “That child deserves better than to become a pawn in a game you’ll never understand.”
And just like that, she turns—
Crack.
A branch snaps from the hedges just ahead. Sharp. Sudden.
We both freeze.
Yelena’s eyes narrow. Her body shifts, fluid and sharp, trained like a woman who’s lived through too many betrayals. She moves toward the noise.
“Who’s there?”
Silence.
She parts the hedge. Nothing.
Just shadows. And wind. And the taste of warning in the air.
She turns back toward me, composed as ever. Her tone cool but laced with quiet promise:
“Be smart, Isabella. This is your only chance to leave untouched.”
And then she’s gone—vanishing down the path like a ghost who knows she still owns the house.