Chapter 19 Bella
BELLA
His words hit me like a slap. I’m sitting next to him, still wrapped in the blanket, barely able to catch my breath from the fever scare and everything we just did—and then he says it.
“I’ll let you go.”
I stare at him, stunned. A hundred emotions crash through me—relief, yes, but also a wave of disappointment that nearly makes me dizzy. “You’re going to let me go?” My voice sounds small, even to my own ears.
Aleksander’s face is serious, dark eyes locked on mine. “Yes. When this is over, I’ll never look for you again. You’ll be free to live however you want. But—” he adds, reaching for my hand, “you have to give me some time first. I need to make sure you’ll be safe.”
“How will you do that?” I ask, not bothering to hide my doubt. “Safe from who? Your mother?”
He exhales, jaw tight. “I don’t know yet. But I can feel it—whatever Irina wants, it’s tied to what happened on the plane. To Kirov.”
His words sink in. “You think she took me to get to you because of that murder?”
“Maybe,” he says. “If I can find out who killed Kirov, or why he was killed, I might have something to bargain with. Or at least I’ll know where the next threat is coming from.”
I pull the blanket tighter, shivering. I’m not sure if it’s from cold or from the idea that my freedom depends on solving a murder I barely even understand.
“Do you really think you can find out?” I ask, softer now, all the fight leaking out of me. “Do you even know where to start?”
Aleksander’s eyes don’t leave mine. “I have to try.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The city hums outside the window, the world moving on as if everything hasn’t changed.
I want to believe him—I want to believe any of us can be safe—but I’m not sure hope is enough.
I sit cross-legged on the bed, sheet twisted in my lap, the city glowing behind Aleksander’s broad silhouette. He’s watching me, feverish but focused, as if willing himself to stay upright through pure stubbornness.
I finally break the silence. “What are you going to do?”
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tense. “First, I’m going to figure out how Kirov died on that plane. That’s the only way we get answers.”
I nod, but doubt creeps in. “We don’t have access to the security footage. The authorities are already involved, and we can’t exactly ask for it without drawing more attention.”
He gives a tired smile, humorless. “Whoever did it must have been careful. It takes skill to kill a man like Kirov and not leave a trail.”
“Isn’t that the problem?” I ask, voice low. “Anyone bold enough to do that on a public flight, they either had nothing left to lose, or they’re hiding something big.”
He considers this, eyes narrowing. “Which means we don’t look for an obvious suspect.
We look for the one who blends in best, who had access and wasn’t noticed.
Flight crew. Security detail. Someone traveling with false papers.
” He shakes his head, thinking out loud.
“Or maybe someone who was never on the passenger manifest at all.”
I watch him—how the gears turn, how easily he slips back into the cold, calculating part of himself that terrifies me. But there’s something protective in it too. He’s doing all of this for Lily. For me.
I tuck my knees to my chest. “Do you really think you can find them?”
His gaze is hard, unyielding. “I don’t have a choice.”
We finally pull ourselves out of bed, the heaviness of everything lingering in the air between us. Aleksander’s movements are slower now, stiff with pain and fever, but determined as ever. I slip into my robe and pad barefoot through his apartment, heading down the quiet hallway to check on Lily.
The place is almost absurd in its size—sleek, modern, and full of hidden corners and soft light.
It should feel intimidating, but today, with sunlight spilling across the floors and Lily’s laughter echoing faintly from the far room, it feels softer, warmer.
Maybe this is what home is supposed to feel like.
I step into the bedroom Aleksander has quietly, meticulously set up for our daughter.
There are plush animals stacked on the dresser, a little reading lamp shaped like a bear, tiny socks in a drawer, picture books already waiting on a low shelf.
There’s even the faint scent of her baby shampoo on the pillow.
After years of drifting, never settling for long, never daring to think Lily and I might be safe somewhere for real, I feel it settle in my chest—this is what home feels like.
Not the walls or the view, but the sense that we belong somewhere, that someone thought about what Lily would need to wake up happy.
It’s a strange, quiet relief, and more than a little ironic. After all the running, all the hiding, the place that feels most like home is the one owned by the man who upended my entire world. Maybe that’s the cruelest joke of all.
Lily is curled up in bed, thumb in her mouth, bunny clutched to her chest. I lean down and kiss her forehead, tucking the blanket under her chin. For just a moment, I let myself believe that maybe we could stay—just a little longer.
Aleksander appears quietly in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame. He stands there, arms folded, just watching us—watching Lily. For a moment he’s not the man I met in a whirlwind of danger and secrets, but something gentler, someone I could almost call family.
He steps into the room, careful not to wake our daughter. His gaze softens as he looks down at her, his hand brushing lightly over her curls, almost as if he can’t believe she’s real.
I let my fingers trail over her blanket. “She looks so peaceful when she sleeps,” I whisper.
He nods, his voice rough. “She has your stubbornness. She’s stronger than she looks.”
We drift into the kitchen, the tension of the morning fading into something quieter.
I move on autopilot, pulling out a mug, pouring milk, adding a drizzle of honey—something my mother did for me whenever the world felt overwhelming.
Aleksander watches, bemused but pleased, as I set it in front of him.
He takes a sip and gives me a look of surprised approval. “This is good.”
I smile, the moment warm and normal in a way that feels almost foreign. “You should try it when you can’t sleep.”
He glances at me over the rim of the mug. “I don’t sleep much.”
I lean against the counter, studying his face in the golden light. “Can I ask you something?”
He sets the mug down. “Anything.”
“Selene,” I say. The name hangs in the air. “Who is she? She was at the estate.”
His expression shifts, something shadowed crossing his features.
He doesn’t answer immediately, turning the mug in his hands.
“Selene works for my mother. At least, that’s what she wants everyone to think.
She’s been around the family for years. She’s…
complicated. Smart. Not someone you want as an enemy. ”
“She helped me, a little, when we were trapped at the estate. But it always felt like she was holding back, or hiding something.”
He nods. “That’s Selene. She picks her loyalties carefully. She knows how dangerous Irina can be, and she knows how quickly things change in our world. She…she protected me before, when I was younger. Covered for me. But she has her own agenda, always. Don’t mistake her kindness for softness.”
I think about that—about the way Selene carried herself, about her careful, calculating calm. “Do you trust her?”
Aleksander’s jaw works, and his answer is slow, honest. “I trust that she’ll always look out for herself first. Sometimes that means helping us. Sometimes it doesn’t.”
“You were texting her before,” I say quietly. “I saw her name pop up on your phone.”
Aleksander doesn’t look away. He nods, no trace of guilt or evasion.
“She’s the one who told me you were at the estate.
I wouldn’t have found you otherwise.” He sets the mug down, voice steady but tired.
“She risked a lot, letting me know. If my mother had found out, it would’ve gone bad for her too. ”
“Do you trust her?” I ask again, softer this time.
“She owes my family,” he says finally. “Or at least, that’s what she says.
Her father died protecting mine—a long time ago.
I think part of her feels like she has to watch over me, make sure I don’t get myself killed.
Maybe she sees something in me worth saving.
Or maybe she just wants to settle old debts so she can walk away. ”
He glances away, brow furrowed. “But sometimes, I think she just…wants to see how it all plays out. She likes having a hand in things, pulling strings, being the one nobody expects. With Selene, it’s never just one reason.”
He looks back at me, suddenly vulnerable in a way I rarely see. “Whatever the answer, I’m not naive. I take her help, but I never forget what she’s capable of. And neither should you.”
I watch Aleksander across the kitchen table, the lines of worry on his face smoothed out for just a moment, the morning sunlight softening him in a way I doubt many people ever see.
When he looks at me, there’s a gentleness there that surprises me every time, as if—despite everything—he’s still capable of softness, of warmth, of care.
I pour him another mug of milk and honey, and he actually accepts it, fingers brushing mine in a way that feels intimate and private.
For a heartbeat, it almost feels normal.
I wonder if anyone has ever taken care of him like this, or if he’s always had to be the strong one, carrying burdens no one else could see.
But the moment doesn’t last. The elevator chimes, a door opens, and Nikolai steps into the apartment with his usual gravity.
He gives me a polite nod, then turns to Aleksander, murmuring in Russian, low and urgent.
I watch Aleksander’s shoulders straighten, his whole body shifting as he stands.
The softness disappears, replaced by the icy focus of a man who knows danger is never far away.
He gives me one last look—something between apology and regret—before following Nikolai down the hallway, already talking business, already plotting their next move. I’m left alone at the kitchen table, the mug warm in my hands, the apartment suddenly far too big and quiet.
I shake my head, trying to laugh at myself. What am I even thinking? I can’t change him. He’s made of iron and secrets and old wounds. He’s always going to be this man—the one people fear, the one who keeps a gun on the nightstand, the one who makes decisions that could destroy us both.
I look out the window, tracing the city’s sprawl with my eyes, and try to remember who I was before all of this.
I grew up alone—my parents gone before I really knew what family was, shuffling from one distant relative to another, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
No siblings, no one who stayed, no one who loved me just for me.
No one, except Lily.
She’s the only thing in my life I’ve ever been able to hold on to. The only person I know I can’t lose.
And now, with Aleksander in the picture, everything is messier, more dangerous, but also—maybe—more real than it’s ever been.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to build a wall between my heart and the man in the next room, but it’s already too late. Some part of me belongs to him, whether I want it or not.
I leave my empty mug in the sink and drift down the hallway, needing to move, to shake off the heaviness pressing in on my chest. The apartment is quiet except for the faint rumble of Aleksander’s voice. It pulls me in, even when I know I shouldn’t listen.
I pass the office and glance in. Aleksander and Nikolai are hunched over a wall crowded with photos, maps, and red string—a web of connections I can’t follow, names I don’t recognize.
Papers are pinned everywhere, faces marked with question marks, routes traced from city to city, line after line threading all their secrets together.
Nikolai notices me first. He stops mid-sentence, eyes narrowing. Aleksander looks up, his face unreadable, but I see something flicker in his gaze—a warning, maybe, or just worry.
No matter how many doors close behind me, I know I’ll always be on the outside, searching for a way in.
Nikolai steps over and quietly pulls the door closed before I can linger in the threshold. The soft click sounds final. I’m shut out of whatever it is they’re planning. Whatever new danger is circling.
I stand there for a moment, feeling foolish for wanting to be included, for thinking I could ever be part of their world beyond the rooms and meals and late-night confessions.
I turn away and head down the hall, past Lily’s new room, past the art studio filled with versions of myself, and out to the living room.
The city sprawls outside the glass. I press my hand to the cool pane and look out, searching the streets for something—maybe for myself.
Down below, people hurry through their day, free and unaware.
I watch the sky, letting the sun warm my face, wondering if I’ll ever feel that kind of freedom again.
For a moment, the apartment feels like a cage, gilded and safe but still a cage.