64. Chapter 64
64
Bella
I walk away because it’s the only thing I can do.
The door closes behind me, sealing him in that hollow, empty rooftop. I walk. One step at a time. Down the stairs. Down the corridor.
Down, down, down.
Don’t you cry. Don’t you cry.
I knew better than to expect anything real from him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Not with an apology. Not with a single word that matters. Just a bracelet—a fucking bracelet—and a look that says everything he won’t.
Halfway down the stairs, I stop.
It’s not far, but the steps stretch out like a goddamn mountain. My muscles tremble, my thigh aches where 27 stitches run a jagged line down my skin, each step like glass slicing through tender flesh. It shouldn’t hurt this much to move, but the weight in my chest makes every inch feel like a mile.
My hand grips the railing, knuckles white as I take each step. Tears sting my eyes before I can blink them away, hot and furious. I hate this. I hate that he gets to walk back in like nothing happened.
A sob rises in my throat, but I swallow it down, hard. Not here. Not now. I keep moving, staring at the floor as the hallway stretches endlessly in front of me. The walls blur. My chest tightens. My breaths come too fast, too shallow. I can still feel his touch on my wrist. The weight of that bracelet, cold against my skin, like a shackle.
Two weeks.
Yelena’s deadline echoes in my head with each step. Two weeks to decide whether to end a life that’s barely begun or disappear forever. Vanish like Irina, becoming another ghost in the Belov family history.
Either way, I lose.
Either way, I leave.
A laugh bubbles up, bitter and broken. God, what a cliché I’ve become. The poor girl who married rich, got pregnant and thought love might follow. A Lifetime movie special waiting to happen.
“Just take the money and go,” I whisper to myself, the words creating small clouds in the cool stairwell air. “It’s what anyone sensible would do.”
But when have I ever been sensible? I stayed for Julian and Lila when running would have been easier. I signed a contract with a man whose world I couldn’t begin to comprehend. I let myself fall for cold gray eyes and rare smiles.
My foot slips on the next step. The world tilts. My hands grasp empty air as I pitch forward.
And then—arms. Strong, certain, catching me before I hit the stairs.
His fingers gripping my arms tight enough to leave bruises. The hallway sways around us, but I can’t focus on anything except the heat of his body, the solid wall of his chest pressing against my back. His hands are iron clamps around my arms, holding me in place, grounding me in the storm of my own mind.
“Bella,” he says, low and rough against my ear. My name vibrates through me, sinking deep, settling somewhere beneath my ribs. His breath is warm, too warm, brushing against the side of my neck. I squeeze my eyes shut, a fresh wave of tears burning hot and fast.
I gasp, a sound caught between a sob and a curse. Because he’s here. Holding me. And I can’t decide whether to shove him away or let myself sink into him.
“You okay?” His voice slips over my skin, warm and unwelcome. I want to say something sharp, tell him to go to hell. But what comes out is a shaky, broken laugh.
I look up, startled to find his face inches from mine. Those damned eyes—storm-gray with flecks of ice blue, like the sky over frozen water.
I blink rapidly, the ceiling doubling and blurring. “Did you always look this good while rescuing damsels in distress?”
“Making jokes won’t stop you from hurting, Bella.”
“And being an asshole won’t stop you from feeling,” I shoot back, the words slipping out before I can catch them. “But here we are.”
His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re not as heartless as you pretend to be.”
For a second, his eyes flash, something raw and unguarded. Then it’s gone, smothered under that granite mask he wears so damn well.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re right. I don’t. Because you don’t let anyone in. You just… push and pull and disappear and come back like nothing happened. Like we’re all just supposed to keep orbiting around you.”
“Careful,” he says, voice a low, lethal drawl. “You’re treading dangerous ground.”
“Good. Maybe I’ll fall off the edge,” I snap. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? One less problem to deal with.”
“You’re not a problem,” he grits out, his grip tightening just a fraction. “You’re…”
“What?” I demand, eyes burning as I look up at him. “I’m what, Konstantin?”
His lips part, but no words come out. Just the sound of his breathing, harsh and ragged, like he’s choking on something he can’t say.
Before I can register what’s happening, his arm hooks under my knees, the other slipping behind my back. My world tilts again, and suddenly, I’m airborne, pressed against his chest, his heartbeat hammering through the thin fabric of his shirt.
“Put me down,” I snap, squirming against him, but his grip tightens, his jaw flexing with barely restrained frustration.
“Keep moving, and you’re going to find out exactly how little patience I have left tonight.”
His gaze drops to mine, eyes dark and burning. I’ve seen that look before—the one that promises more than words ever could.
“Like you’d dare.”
“Keep testing me and find out.”
The air between us crackles, heavy with everything unsaid. His jaw is a tense, unforgiving line, eyes locked forward as he carries me down the hall. I’m so close to him I can smell the faint scent of smoke and cedar, feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hiss, hands braced against his chest, trying not to feel how solid, how warm, how infuriatingly safe he feels beneath my palms.
“Keeping you from falling again.”
“I wasn’t going to fall.”
“You were shaking so hard I thought your legs were about to give out.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” he mutters, eyes darkening as they finally drop to mine. “And stubborn. So goddamn stubborn.”
He carries me through the west wing gallery, past oil paintings of stern-faced Belov ancestors who seem to judge me with their painted eyes. Two maids round the corner, arms full of fresh linens. Their eyes widen momentarily before they quickly lower their gazes, offering small nods as they press themselves against the wall to let us pass. Not a flicker of surprise crosses their faces—as if the master of the house carrying his crying wife through the halls is the most normal thing in the world.
“Your staff has impressive poker faces,” I mumble against his chest.
“They’re paid well to see nothing.”
“What about hearing nothing?” I ask, suddenly aware of how close his ear is to my mouth, how my lips almost brush his jaw when I speak.
“That costs extra.”
A surprised laugh escapes me, watery and weak. “Was that… a joke? From Konstantin Belov? Quick, someone check if hell froze over.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile. “I have my moments.”
We pass through the library with its two-story shelves and the indoor courtyard, where water trickles from a stone fountain shaped like a roaring bear. Each space feels like crossing into another world—rooms I’ve barely explored in my time here, spaces that belong to him but somehow hold pieces of me now, too.
The halls grow quieter as we ascend to the private quarters. No staff here. No children. Just us and the sound of his measured footsteps against marble, then carpet.
I should be fighting. Should be demanding he put me down. Should maintain what little dignity I have left.
“You know the joke about being carried across the threshold is supposed to happen at the beginning of the marriage, not weeks in,” I mutter, trying desperately to hold on to my sarcasm.
But something about the gentle way he holds me, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my ear, and the knowledge that in six days, everything changes—it all crashes down at once. The joke dies in my throat as emotion rises like a tidal wave.
My chest tightens. My vision blurs. And suddenly, I’m crying—not the dignified, pretty tears of movie heroines, but ugly, ragged sobs that shake my entire body.
Great. Perfect timing, pregnancy hormones. Just when I need my emotional armor most.
I’d read about this—how pregnancy turns your emotions into a roller coaster with no safety bar. But nothing prepared me for the whiplash between sarcasm and sobbing in the span of heartbeats. One second, I’m making jokes; the next, I’m a fountain.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp between sobs. “I don’t know why I’m— This isn’t like me—”
Except it is now. This new version of me that cries at commercials and throws up at the smell of fish. This version carrying a secret that weighs more with each passing day.
Konstantin’s jaw clenches, the muscle flexing as he adjusts his grip, pulling me closer against his chest. His stride slows, as though he’s trying to keep us steady, like he’s afraid I might shatter right here in his arms.
I let my head fall against his shoulder, surrendering to the tears. I cry for the baby I might not keep. For the man who might never know about it. For the impossible choice ahead of me.
His breathing deepens, his brows drawing together in a tight line, but he doesn’t say a word.
It’s these damn hormones.
I cry until his shirt is damp beneath my cheek, until my throat aches with the effort of keeping the sobs quiet.
Through it all, he says nothing. Just carries me, steady and certain, through darkened hallways that lead to the master suite—my room on one side, his on the other, a shared sitting room between.
He pushes open my bedroom door with his foot and carries me inside. The room is bathed in soft lamplight, the bed turned down by some invisible staff member while I was on the roof. He sets me gently on the edge of the mattress, his hands lingering just a moment too long.
This close, I can see the faint shadows beneath his eyes. The day’s stubble darkening his jaw. Small imperfections in a face that otherwise seems carved from marble. Proof he’s human, after all.
He kneels in front of me, bringing himself to eye level. His fingers reach up, hesitant, then brush a tear from my cheek.
“You’re a mess,” he says.
“Thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear.”
His thumb traces the curve of my cheekbone, gentle in a way that makes my heart hurt more than harsh words ever could.
“Why are you crying, Bella?”
Because I’m carrying your child and don’t know how to tell you. Because your mother gave me a choice that’s no choice at all. Because in six days, you become something I understand even less than I understand you now.
“Because you keep acting like none of this matters,” I say instead, my voice raw. “Like it’s just another day in your perfect, controlled world.”
His jaw tightens. “What truth do you think I’m hiding from you, Bella?”
A dozen answers crowd my throat. That this marriage is more than a contract to him, too. That he feels something, anything, beyond obligation. That there’s a future where we don’t have to pretend, where I don’t have to choose between a child and a clean escape.
“That you care,” I finally whisper. “That this means something to you beyond a business arrangement.”
He looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in those storm-gray eyes. Then he leans forward, one hand braced on the bed beside me, the other cupping my face.
“You think I don’t care?” His voice is a rough whisper that sends shivers across my skin. “You think I would go through all this—the contract, the protection, keeping your siblings safe—if I didn’t?”
“I think you’d do anything to get what you want. And right now, what you want is to become Pakhan . I’m just a means to that end.”
His fingers tighten slightly against my jaw. “You have no idea what I want.”
“Then tell me.”
His eyes drop to my mouth, lingering there as he moves closer, his breath warm against my lips.
“I’m better at showing than telling.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as he leans in, our faces so close I can count each of his eyelashes. His thumb traces my bottom lip, the touch featherlight but electrifying.
For one suspended moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. I think he’s finally going to cross that line we’ve been dancing around since the night on the sidewalk under the streetlamp.
But then he pulls back, his expression shuttering closed like blinds against the sun.
“I should go,” he says, his voice rough. “I have work to do.”
I should tell him. About the baby.
But the words lodge in my throat, tangled up in fear and uncertainty.
He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, putting distance between us that feels wider than the mere feet separating our bodies.
“Konstantin…”
“Get some rest.” He turns toward the door, all broad shoulders and rigid spine.
“Goodnight, Bella.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the ghost of his almost-kiss and the weight of all the words we never said.