Chapter 7 Bella
BELLA
I don’t believe him.
I nod when Aleksander tells me everything is under control, when he says it’s probably nothing, when he asks me to stay put and lock the door. I do all the right things. But the moment he steps away, that tight, familiar feeling settles in my chest.
He’s hiding something from me.
I don’t know much about Aleksander. Not really.
I don’t know where his money comes from, or why people seem to make space for him without being asked, or why his calm feels practiced rather than natural.
But I know this much, in the quiet way you know a storm is coming before the sky changes: he’s a dangerous man.
I sit back in my seat, the privacy door closed, my daughter sleeping beside me.
I rest a hand on her leg, grounding myself, and stare at the wall while the plane hums on as if nothing has happened.
Somewhere above us, someone died. Somewhere not far from here, Aleksander is moving pieces I can’t see.
He told me not to worry. That’s how I know I should.
My mind drifts, uninvited, back to the first time he really saw me.
The parking lot had been chaos, me flustered and apologizing, him amused and irritatingly calm. I’d driven away thinking that would be it. A strange man, a strange moment, filed away and forgotten.
I was wrong.
The second time I saw him was weeks later, at a dinner party I was hosting for a client who liked to remind everyone how important he was. It was one of those evenings where everything had to be perfect. Candles placed just so. Seating charts memorized. My phone buzzing constantly in my pocket.
I was halfway through directing the caterers when I felt it. That sensation of being watched.
I looked up and there he was.
Aleksander stood near the bar, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, glass untouched in his hand. He was talking to someone, smiling politely, but his eyes were already on me. Not surprised. Not confused. Certain.
Like he’d expected to see me again.
My breath caught. I remember thinking, irrationally, that he looked even more dangerous indoors.
I feel him before I see him, that same awareness crawling up my spine the way it did in the parking lot weeks ago. I’m standing near the sideboard, fixing place cards that don’t actually need fixing, when I feel someone’s gaze on me.
And there he is, the guy from the parking lot.
He’s walking toward me from the bar, jacket open, sleeves rolled to his forearms, glass in hand but untouched. He moves like he owns the room without needing to announce it. People don’t get out of his way so much as drift aside, conversations thinning as he passes.
Second time seeing him. I know it instantly. The parking lot flashes through my mind. The dent. The smirk. The way he looked at me like he’d already decided something.
He stops in front of me, eyes slow and deliberate as they take me in. Not rushed. Not polite. Curious.
“Tell me something,” he says, voice low and warm. “Do you always look this busy, or did I just catch you on an important night?”
I swallow, suddenly aware of my heels, my dress, the clipboard clutched too tightly to my chest. “It’s always an important night,” I say. “That’s kind of the job.”
His mouth curves slightly. “Which is?”
“I help organize events,” I reply. “Corporate dinners. Private parties. Clients who want everything perfect but don’t want to know how much work it takes.”
“Ah,” he says softly. “So you’re the one keeping the wheels from coming off.”
I shrug. “Someone has to.”
He studies me for a beat, then tilts his head. “And what do I call the person saving the evening?”
I hesitate, then offer a small smile. “Bella.”
His eyes flicker. Just for a second. Something sharp, pleased.
“Bella,” he repeats, testing it. Then, without asking, without apology, he corrects himself. “No. Isabella.”
The way he says it makes my breath hitch. Slower. Lower. Like he’s tasting it.
“I didn’t say Isabella,” I point out.
He steps a fraction closer, not enough to touch, but enough that I feel the heat of him. “You didn’t have to.”
I should step back. I don’t. I stay rooted there, pulse ticking faster than it should.
“And you?” I ask, mostly to prove to myself that I still can.
“Aleksander,” he says. “We met briefly. You reversed into my car.”
I let out a quiet laugh. “Right. That was you.”
“That was me,” he agrees. “I was hoping you’d remember.”
Something about that makes my stomach flip. “You’re here with the client?”
“Not exactly,” he says. “But I know him. He wanted a certain kind of crowd tonight.”
“And you fit?” I ask.
His smile deepens. “I always do.”
Behind me, someone calls my name, asking about the wine pairing. I glance over my shoulder, then back at Aleksander, already feeling the pull of being needed elsewhere.
“Well,” I say, adjusting my grip on the clipboard, “enjoy the evening, Aleksander. Try not to cause any trouble.”
He leans in just enough that only I can hear him. “Isabella,” he murmurs, deliberate again, “I don’t cause trouble.” And then he disappears into the crowd.
Before I can collect myself, I hear a familiar voice beside me—a little breathless, a little teasing. “Who was that sin of a man you were talking to, Bells? Please tell me he’s a guest and not some very important person’s husband.”
I turn and find Maya standing there, curly hair escaping her updo, tablet in one hand, earpiece half falling out. She’s the only reason tonight isn’t on fire—she’s been working the logistics all week, wrangling staff and vendors like a general in heels.
I manage a casual shrug. “No one. Just…someone who recognized me from another event.” It comes out light, but my heart is still drumming a little too fast in my chest.
Maya gives me a sideways look, dark eyes sharp but amused. “No one, huh?” She grins, lowering her voice. “If that’s no one, then I need more of your kind of nobody in my life. He’s a little older, but damn.”
I laugh, grateful for the distraction. “He’s just a guest, Maya. And I don’t think he bites.”
She nudges me, voice conspiratorial. “If you say so. You’re blushing, by the way. Come on, we have a floral emergency at table four, and you’re the only one they’ll listen to.”
I let her pull me back into the current of work, her chatter filling the space Aleksander left behind. But even as we cross the room, I catch myself glancing back, just once, searching for the silhouette by the bar—tall, calm, and impossible to ignore.
I tell myself I’m just being careful. That I don’t care.
But as Maya starts listing off tonight’s next crisis, I realize I can still hear Aleksander’s voice in my ear, low and dangerous, saying my name like it’s a secret.
And my heart, stupidly, is still skipping beats.
The evening blurs into a cycle of small disasters and near misses—Maya waving frantically from the kitchen, servers running behind, last-minute changes to the seating chart.
I’m doing my best to keep everything smooth, but by the time appetizers are served, I can feel the tension gathering in my neck and shoulders.
It all comes to a head when one of the VIP guests—a red-faced man with a loud voice and too much cologne—snaps his fingers and calls me over in front of half the room.
“Excuse me, are you actually in charge here? My wife is allergic to shellfish and there is shrimp in the salad. This is unacceptable. Are you even listening? I said no shellfish. Can’t you follow the simplest instructions? ”
The room seems to shrink. Every eye turns. I try to explain, try to apologize, but the man keeps talking over me, louder each time. “If you can’t get this right, I’ll call your boss myself. Unbelievable.”
Maya’s at my elbow, trying to help, but it’s too late.
The humiliation cuts straight through me.
I murmur an apology, assure him I’ll handle it, and escape as soon as I can.
I barely remember how I make it up the stairs, to the small lounge on the mezzanine level—a little balcony overlooking the main hall, dim and mostly empty.
I sink into a chair behind a decorative pillar, pressing my hands to my face, fighting back tears. I’m so tired of being invisible until something goes wrong. Tired of feeling so small, so out of place, like I’m always a mistake away from being exposed.
I try to get a grip, breathing quietly, but a tear slips free and I can’t quite stop the next one.
That’s when I hear footsteps. I look up, startled, and Aleksander is there, the light catching on his dark hair, his jacket slung over his shoulder.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just takes in my blotchy face and red eyes, and for a second he’s not the dangerous man from downstairs, just a man who sees me.
He crouches beside me, close enough to touch but leaving the choice up to me. “Rough night?” His voice is low, gentle in a way I didn’t expect.
I try to laugh but it breaks. “I’m fine. Just…tired of being yelled at, I guess.”
He watches me for a long moment, eyes steady and quiet. “You shouldn’t let them talk to you like that.”
I shake my head, wiping my face. “Comes with the job. I’m just supposed to handle it.”
“People like that only yell because they’re used to people shrinking away. You’re not small, Isabella.”
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. I look at him, really look, and for the first time all night, I don’t feel invisible.
He reaches up, brushes a stray tear from my cheek with the back of his finger, his touch surprisingly careful. “You deserve better.”
I don’t know what happens next—if he leans in first or if I do—but suddenly our mouths find each other, and the tension from the night melts into something hotter, messier, real.
I taste whiskey and something dark on his lips.
His hands slide into my hair, his body pressing against mine as I cling to his shoulders, desperate for the feeling of being wanted instead of needed.