67. Chapter 67
67
Bella
T wo hours later, we step out of L’étoile Privée, the sun blinding after hours of ridiculously overpriced lavender oil and manicures. Elena loops her arm through mine, sunglasses perched high on her head like a movie star. Lila and Alya skip ahead, giggling as they swing their little shopping bags from side to side.
“I think I just experienced what it’s like to be a Kardashian for a day,” Elena says, admiring her blood-red nails in the sunlight. “All I need now is a reality show and questionable fashion choices.”
I shake my head, smiling at her antics. Looking at Lila and Alya walking in front of us, I can’t help but feel a warm sense of contentment. Our entire security crew surrounds us like we’re royalty, Viktor and two others forming a human shield while still maintaining a respectful distance.
“My nails look like unicorn vomit,” Lila says, showing off a dazzling array of rainbow glitter polish.
“And mine look like sparkly stars,” Alya adds, holding her hands out for inspection.
Elena makes a grand show of examining them. “Wow. So chic. So sophisticated. You two could be influencers.”
My phone rings, the vibration humming through my purse. Before I can dig it out, the security team suddenly tenses, their casual stances transforming into alert vigilance. Viktor steps closer to Alya while Dimitri moves to my side, hand discreetly reaching inside his jacket. Two black SUVs idle at the curb, engines humming softly, drivers alert and waiting.
A silver Bentley glides to a stop directly in front of us, cutting off our path to the vehicles. The door opens, and like some villain making a perfectly timed entrance, Tatiana Belov emerges.
She looks like she’s stepped out of a fashion magazine—cream Chanel suit, pearl earrings, not a single platinum blonde hair out of place. Her face is eerily smooth, stretched into what I assume is her version of a pleasant expression, though it doesn’t reach her ice-blue eyes. Like a queen surveying her subjects, she takes in our little group with calculated disinterest.
“Oh. What a coincidence, devotchka ,” she says, her eyes landing on Alya. Her tone makes it clear this is anything but random.
My stomach drops. I’ve only met Konstantin’s stepmother once, at some charity event where she spent the evening looking at me like I was something stuck to her shoe. She was politely venomous then. Today, she’s not bothering with the polite part.
Elena’s arm tenses against mine, a silent question. I give her the tiniest shake of my head—a warning not to provoke. She ignores it, of course.
Slowly, with a saccharine smile that makes my skin crawl, Tatiana ignores me completely and holds out her arms. Her voice shifts to something artificially warm as she pretends to squat down a little.
“Come give me a hug, devotchka ,” she coos to Alya.
Dimitri steps forward. “Mrs. Belov, we weren’t expecting—”
“Don’t be disrespectful,” Tatiana snaps, straightening to her full height. “I am still the Pakhan’s wife.” Her gaze slides to me, cold and assessing. “The original one, at least.”
My spine stiffens, but I keep my expression neutral. Inside, though, my heart is pounding. This woman is dangerous—not in the same way Konstantin is, with his controlled power, but in the way a venomous spider is. Small, seemingly innocuous, until the poison hits.
She crouches to Alya’s level, fingers brushing a lock of her hair. “Look at you, Alya. Still the prettiest girl in the family. Just like your mama was.”
Alya’s eyes dart to me, uncertain and suddenly afraid. Her small fingers clutch at the hem of her dress. Without thinking—pure instinct—I step forward, my body sliding between them, blocking Tatiana’s hand.
“Alya, why don’t you and Lila go show Elena your nails again?” My voice is calm, but my pulse is racing.
Alya’s face crumples with relief as she nods, retreating back to Elena, who raises an eyebrow at me over her sunglasses. I can see the question in her eyes: “What the hell is happening?”
Lila moves closer to Alya, one arm protectively around Alya’s shoulders.
Tatiana rises to her full height, eyes narrowing. We stand face to face now, barely two feet apart. Her perfume is expensive, cloying—something French that makes my newly sensitive stomach roll.
“Well, well,” Tatiana says, voice dripping with false sweetness. “The new Mrs. Belov has claws. But let me give you some advice, Bella. One day, you think you’re on top of the world. The next, you’re… dead.”
Elena steps forward, eyes wide with mock surprise. “Woo, woo, woo. Who’s talking about dead things? Oh, right. Botox Barbie herself. Shouldn’t you be in a freezer somewhere?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing—or screaming. Elena has never known when to back down, even when facing someone who could probably arrange her disappearance with a single phone call.
Tatiana’s gaze flicks to Elena, then back to me. The calculation in her eyes is chilling.
“And who might this be? Another remnant of your… working-class past?”
“I’m her Botox detector,” Elena replies with a sweet smile. “And, honey, whoever did your last round needs to have their medical license revoked. Your forehead hasn’t moved since 2010, but the rest of your face is just kinda… floating around underneath it. It’s fascinating, really. Like geological layers.”
I could kiss her and kill her in the same moment.
“How embarrassing for Konstantin,” Tatiana says, her voice sharp as glass. “First, he marries a waitress , and now he has to tolerate her uncultured friends. Some bloodlines simply can’t be elevated, I suppose. Like trying to train alley cats for the show ring.”
The dig hits harder than I want to admit. Not for me—I’ve never been ashamed of where I come from—but for what it implies about Konstantin. That I’m somehow a stain on his reputation. That he’s settling. That this entire arrangement is beneath him.
Tatiana turns back to Alya, completely dismissing Elena and me as if we’ve ceased to exist. Her body language says it all—we’re less than nothing in her world.
“How are your brothers, devotchka ? Are they behaving themselves?” Her tone shifts when she speaks to Alya, becoming almost genuine. Almost.
“They’re at the shooting range,” Alya says, her small hand finding mine again, fingers warm and trusting as they wrap around my palm. “With Mommy’s brother, Julian. Lev hit all the targets!”
Tatiana’s face freezes, the muscles around her eyes tightening despite the Botox. A flash of genuine emotion—shock, followed quickly by contempt—cracks her perfect mask.
“Mommy?” she repeats, the word coated in disbelief. Her gaze flickers between Alya and me, taking in our clasped hands, the protective way I position my body, the natural way Alya leans against my side.
Something dark passes behind her eyes. “Oh dear. How… quaint.”
My heart swells and contracts simultaneously—pride at Alya’s acceptance, fear at the calculation I see forming behind Tatiana’s eyes.
“Children form attachments so quickly, don’t they?” Her voice has gone silky, dangerous. “A shame they often have to learn about impermanence the hard way. One day, you’re the cherished child; the next…” She makes a small, dismissive gesture, fingers fluttering like she’s shooing away an insect. “Well, life is unpredictable, isn’t it? Especially in our world.”
The threat is barely veiled now. I instinctively move Alya further behind me, one hand resting protectively over my stomach before I can catch myself. Tatiana’s eyes follow the movement, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her features.
Viktor shifts closer to us, his hand moving slightly toward what I assume is a concealed weapon. The other guards have tightened their formation, eyes constantly scanning the street, the buildings, Tatiana’s car.
“Is that a threat, Cruella?” Elena asks, examining her nails like she’s bored by the whole exchange. “Because I gotta say, the whole evil stepmother vibe is a little Disney Channel circa 1995. Next, you’ll be offering us poisoned apples and cackling about being the fairest of them all, which,” she looks Tatiana up and down with exaggerated assessment, “would be quite the stretch.”
Tatiana’s face transforms, cold fury replacing the calculated smile. “You should teach your… friend about respect,” she says to me, each word precisely enunciated. “Before she finds herself in a situation she can’t talk her way out of.”
“Or what?” Elena challenges, stepping forward. “You’ll have your minions feed her to the sharks? Make her disappear? Force her to listen to your boring threats for another minute? Because honestly, the last one seems cruelest.”
Tatiana’s hand flies up, a blur of motion aimed at Elena’s face.
“No!” I gasp, reaching out too late.
But the slap never lands.
Instead, a large hand intercepts Tatiana’s wrist in midair. Arseny—who I hadn’t even noticed approaching—holds her arm effortlessly, his expression almost bored. He’s appeared silently beside us, moving with the dangerous grace of a predator. His grip on Tatiana’s wrist is firm but controlled—exactly enough pressure to stop her, not enough to mark her skin.
“Mrs. Belov,” he says, and it takes me a second to realize he’s addressing Tatiana, not me.
Elena, completely unfazed by her near brush with assault, is openly staring at Arseny like he’s the last dessert at a buffet. Her eyes travel from his face down to his shoulders, lingering on his hands before making their way back up. Not subtle. Not even trying to be subtle.
And Arseny — who usually moves through life like everything’s a joke only he understands — is staring right back. His smirk is gone, replaced by something darker, more intent. When Elena drags her teeth over her bottom lip, his eyes drop to her mouth, lingering just a beat too long.Good lord. It’s like watching two predators circle each other, trying to decide if they want to fight or mate.
“Security concerns, you understand,” Arseny continues, still holding Tatiana’s wrist, but his attention is clearly divided. “Can’t have the family creating scenes in public.”
Tatiana’s nostrils flare as she withdraws her hand, composure returning like a mask being reapplied. The transition is unsettling—rage to poise in the space of a heartbeat.
“Of course. How thoughtless of me.” Her gaze flicks to Elena, then back to Arseny. “Well,” she says, her voice cool and thin, “I should be going. Alya, be sure to tell your father I’m looking forward to his… ceremony.” Tatiana’s eyes land on me one last time. “And Bella? Enjoy your… family while you can.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with threat.
What the hell does that mean?
And just like the timing is right, a black Range Rover pulls up behind Tatiana’s Bentley. The timing feels orchestrated, too perfect to be coincidence. All heads turn as the engine cuts off.
Konstantin steps out first, his height and bearing instantly commanding attention. He’s followed by Julian, Nikolai, and Lev, all laughing about something—a bright bubble of normality that bursts the moment they register the tension in the air.
The sight of Konstantin—tall, imposing, his face shifting from relaxed to alert in the space of a heartbeat—sends a flutter through my chest.
No. Stop it.
“Well, hello, testosterone convention,” Elena mutters beside me, fanning herself dramatically. “Is this what you wake up to every morning? If so, I’m filing paperwork to become your sister. Blood relation optional.”
Tatiana stiffens, clearly thrown by his appearance. Whatever game she was playing, Konstantin’s arrival has disrupted it. For a split second, genuine surprise flashes across her face before she manages to compose herself.
Konstantin’s eyes sweep over the scene, taking in every detail: me holding Alya protectively, Tatiana’s predatory stance, Elena and Arseny standing unusually close, security on high alert. His jaw tightens, a muscle working beneath his skin.
His gaze lands on Tatiana. And then, as if she’s invisible, his eyes move to me.
Konstantin strides over, slipping an arm around my waist, pulling me against him like he’s staking a claim. “Lunch is waiting.”