66. Chapter 66
66
Bella
“ O .M.G, babe, I’ve never thought I’d step foot in L’étoile Privée,” Elena whispers as we’re escorted through gold-trimmed glass doors by a woman whose posture suggests she’s balancing invisible books on her head. “Isn’t this where Beyoncé gets her eyebrows done when she’s in town?”
Before I can answer, a slender woman in a crisp white uniform glides toward us, carrying a silver tray with four flutes of champagne.
“Mrs. Belov,” she says with a smile that seems practiced in front of a mirror, “your welcome drinks. The rosé champagne your husband arranged for your party.”
“I’ll take sparkling water if you have it,” I say quickly, trying to sound casual.
“Of course, Mrs. Belov. Right away.” She nods. “The entire staff is at your disposal today,” she continues, distributing the remaining glasses. “Mr. Belov was most insistent that you receive our undivided attention.”
“The entire staff?” I ask. “There must be other clients—”
“Oh no, Mrs. Belov.” She looks almost scandalized at the suggestion. “The salon is exclusively yours until 3 p.m. Mr. Belov was quite clear.”
After she leaves, Elena clutches her champagne flute to her chest dramatically.
“Oh, Mrs. Belov,” she whispers in a terrible French accent, “your husband, he is so powerful, so commanding. I hear when he sneezes, small countries declare national holidays.” She fans herself with her free hand. “Perhaps I could interest you in our caviar facial? We apply it with hundred-dollar bills, as per Mr. Belov’s usual instructions.”
“Would you stop?” I mutter, fighting a smile.
“Almost two months,” Elena continues, shaking her head in disbelief as she links her arm through mine. “All this without my best friend because she’s off living the high life in a mansion, and suddenly I’m being ushered into a place that has a two-year waiting list like I’m celebrity-adjacent.”
Lila and Alya appear from around a corner, wrapped in plush white robes that make them look like tiny luxury ghosts. They’re giggling, followed by two eager salon attendants who hover around them like butterflies.
“Oh, Jesus, Bella, this place is literally God-tier,” Lila announces, doing a little twirl. “They have heated toilet seats in the bathroom. Heated. Toilet. Seats. I’m moving in.”
Alya nods enthusiastically. “And they have candy-flavored lip gloss in the lockers! I got watermelon!”
I look around at the obscene display of wealth surrounding us—the gold fixtures, the crystal, the staff-to-client ratio that would make a royal palace seem understaffed—and feel that familiar wave of unreality wash over me. Two months ago, I was clipping coupons and worrying about Julian’s tuition payments. Now, I’m casually spending a Saturday in a place where a basic manicure probably costs what I used to make in a day.
The salon is a shrine to all things luxurious—crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, velvet chairs so plush they swallow you whole, and a wall of mirrors that reflects perfectly manicured women flipping through glossy magazines. The scent of lavender and lemon oil hangs thick in the air, almost too much for my newly heightened sense of smell.
Ten minutes later, Elena is sprawled out on one of those ridiculous recliners, cucumber slices over her eyes, and her head wrapped in a cloud of foaming hair mask that’s supposed to smell like coconut but reeks of chemicals to me.
Lila and Alya sit beside her, their feet soaking in matching pink basins while two beauticians massage their calves. Lila’s eyes are closed, a soft, blissed-out smile on her face. Alya, on the other hand, is kicking up water like a small, feral cat.
“So, Trevor’s officially out of the picture,” Elena says, tossing a cucumber slice in the air and catching it in her mouth. “Turns out the guy meditates more than he, you know, gets it up.”
“Elena,” I hiss, glancing at the girls. Alya is too busy blowing bubbles with her mouth to pay attention, but Lila’s eyes snap open, her brows waggling like she understands more than she lets on.
Elena just grins, pulling the other cucumber slice from her eye and flicking it onto the tray beside her.
“What? I’m just saying, the only thing he was good at balancing was a kombucha bottle on his abs.”
“What’s kombucha?” Alya asks, tipping her head back to look at Elena.
“Something you should never, ever drink,” I say quickly. “It’s… adult juice.”
“Oh, like wine?” Lila asks, a little too innocently.
“Exactly,” Elena says, winking. “Except way worse.”
“Elena!”
She laughs, stretching her arms above her head until her back pops.
“Relax, B. It’s Saturday. You’re allowed to breathe, you know.”
“Yeah,” Lila chimes in, kicking a splash of water over Alya’s foot. “Breathe. And stop being such a mom. ”
I huff, reaching for a magazine that smells like cheap perfume and ink. “I’m not—”
“Totally a mom,” Elena and Lila say in unison.
“Since Bella is Papa’s wife, that means she’s my mommy!” Alya announces, her voice sweet and matter-of-fact, like she’s stating the most obvious truth in the world. Her eyes dart between us, a small grin spreading over her face. “Does that make me the little sister?”
My heart stutters, then swells so suddenly I can barely breathe. Mommy . The word hits me like a physical force, spreading warmth from my chest to my fingertips. I’ve been “sister” for so long—sister, guardian, caretaker—but “mommy” is something I never expected. Especially not from this fierce little girl with stormy eyes so much like her father’s.
“Obviously,” Lila says, flicking a tiny bit of water at Alya, who squeals and tries to splash back. I should stop them. I should. But watching them makes something warm settle in my chest, a feeling I haven’t had in a long time. Like maybe, just for a few hours, everything is okay.
But the two hulking guards stationed at the entrance, arms crossed and eyes sweeping the room, remind me that everything is not okay. Not even close.
It’s been twenty-four hours since the house turned into a military compound. Extra security patrolling the grounds, hushed conversations behind closed doors, and Konstantin—well, he’s been as present as a ghost. I caught a glimpse of him this morning, striding down the hall with Arseny, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. He didn’t see me.
Four days until the succession ceremony. Four days until everything changes. Again.
My phone buzzes on the armrest. A text from Julian:
Julian: Learning to shoot from N & L. Did you know Nikolai can calculate wind resistance in his head? Kid’s a genius. Lev keeps doing trick shots like we’re in a Western. Security dudes look terrified.
I smile, typing back:
Me: If either of you loses a body part, I’m not explaining it to Konstantin.
Another buzz:
Julian: Chill, sis. These guys have more security than Fort Knox. One guy yelled at Lev for spinning a gun on his finger. Kid pouted for like 10 seconds then started doing it again when the guy turned around.
“Good news?” Elena asks, eyeing my smile.
“Julian and the boys are at the shooting range. Apparently, Lev is channeling his inner cowboy.”
Elena snorts. “Of course. Rich kids playing with guns. Very on-brand.”
“They’re being supervised,” I say defensively, though I’m not sure why I feel the need to defend the Belov family’s parenting choices.
“By security guys who probably moonlight as professional killers?” Elena whispers, leaning closer. “Yeah, super reassuring.”
I roll my eyes but don’t correct her. Because she’s not exactly wrong.
“Mrs. Belov?” A salon attendant materializes beside me, her voice soft and deferential. “Your manicure appointment is ready.”
“It’s just Bella,” I say automatically, though I know it’s useless. From the moment we stepped into this place, it was clear the staff had been briefed on exactly who I was—or, more specifically, who I was married to.
As I follow her to the manicure station, I feel a wave of nausea hit me so suddenly that I have to grip the edge of a nearby chair. The smell of acetone and polish remover slams into me like a truck.
“Are you alright, Mrs. Belov?” the attendant asks, concern etched across her face.
“Fine,” I manage, breathing through my mouth. “Just… maybe we could move to a station near a window? I need some air.”
She nods quickly, changing course. “Of course. Right this way.”
Elena catches my eye, raising an eyebrow in silent question. I give her a small nod to say I’m okay. The nausea is new and not new all at once—I’ve been sick every morning for the past week, but the triggers keep changing. Yesterday it was Konstantin’s cologne lingering in the hallway. Today, it’s nail polish. Tomorrow, it might be oxygen.
The joys of pregnancy.
“Bella, look!” Alya calls from her pedicure station, wiggling her toes. “They’re making my nails look like little stars!”
I smile, the nausea receding slightly. “They’re beautiful, Alya.”
“Lila’s going to teach me TikTok dances later,” she announces proudly. “She says I’m a natural.”
“She is,” Lila confirms, not looking up from her phone. “Kid’s got rhythm.”
“Please tell me you’re not corrupting an 8-year-old with WAP,” I mutter to my sister as I pass her chair.
Lila rolls her eyes. “Give me some credit. We’re starting with the coffee dance.”
“The what now?”
“It’s this stupid thing where you pretend to—” She breaks off, making a stirring motion with her hand. “Never mind. It’s age-appropriate, I swear.”
One of the security guards moves to a position where he can see all of us at once. His expression never changes, but I swear there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes as he watches Alya demonstrate what I assume is the coffee dance, her tiny hands mimicking stirring something.
“Your security detail is hot,” Elena stage-whispers as I sit beside her at the manicure station. “Like, unnecessarily hot. Do they recruit from modeling agencies or what?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I mutter, though I’ve wondered the same thing. Every man in Konstantin’s security team looks like he was carved from granite and then taught to scowl professionally.
“That one hasn’t taken his eyes off you since we got here,” she continues, nodding toward a guard stationed near the back entrance. “The one with the cheekbones that could cut glass.”
“That’s Dimitri,” I say, recognizing him from the house. “And he’s watching me because that’s literally his job.”
“Mmm, sure, honey. Keep telling yourself that.” Elena stretches her legs, crossing them at the ankles. “So, when exactly are you going to tell Mr. Big Bad Boss about the bun in your oven?”
I nearly choke on my own breath. “Could you be any louder? I don’t think they heard you in Sacramento.”
“Relax. The girls are halfway across the room, and these guys,” she jerks her head toward the security team, “are probably trained to tune out idle chatter. So? When?”
I sigh, watching as the manicurist files my nails into perfect ovals. “After the ceremony. Once everything settles down.”
“And when will that be, exactly? Because from what I understand, becoming the head honcho of a crime family isn’t exactly a ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ kind of deal.”
“I don’t know, Elena. But I can’t dump this on him right now. He’s barely sleeping as it is.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “That’s not the only reason you’re waiting, is it? What aren’t you telling me?”
I hesitate, thinking about Yelena’s ultimatum. Two weeks to decide whether to terminate the pregnancy, take the money and run, or… what? Stay and fight? For a man who married me for a signature on a contract?
“It’s complicated,” I finally say.
“Mm-hmm. And the longer you wait, the more complicated it gets.” Elena leans back in her chair, letting the manicurist paint her nails a deep, bloody red. “You know what I think?”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“I think you’re scared. Not of him, but of what happens when he knows. Because right now, this baby is just yours. Your secret. Your choice. But once you tell him—”
“It becomes real,” I finish softly. “And everything changes.”
She nods, her expression uncharacteristically gentle. “But Bella, it’s already real. And everything’s already changing. The question is whether you’re going to let him in on it or not.”
I’m already all in.
That’s the hardest part to accept. Despite the contract, despite everything, I’ve fallen for a man who might never feel the same way.