15. Chapter 15
15
Konstantin
L os Angeles.
The city hums beneath me, a beast of glass and steel stretching toward the smog-heavy sky. From my penthouse office, I can see everything—downtown’s ruthless ambition, the sun-drenched hills of the elite, the ocean in the distance swallowing secrets whole.
And all of it? Mine.
Belov Global Holdings.
Officially, a multi-billion-dollar real estate empire. Luxury developments. High-end properties. Global investments. The kind of business that keeps politicians well-fed and regulators blind.
Unofficially? It’s the perfect front. Every clean deal filters money through a network of offshore accounts, covering for the less legitimate parts of my empire. And here, in my top-floor office, I control it all.
I should be focused on business.
Instead, I’m here. Pissed off.
And hard as a fucking rock.
My jaw ticks as I loosen my tie, the crisp fabric suddenly suffocating. The woman has burrowed under my skin, carved her place in my mind like a goddamn brand, and I can’t shake her.
Her scent still lingers in my head—something sweet beneath the rain, clean but warm. The way her damp hair clung to her shoulders, how her thighs trembled when she came, the way she bit her lip as if she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
Blyad.
I slam my palm against the desk, exhaling sharply, but it does nothing to ease the tension coiled tight in my gut. I can still hear her. The soft, desperate sounds she made. The way her breath hitched when she thought she was alone. That fucking moan when she finally let go—when she gave in .
I palm my cock through my slacks, jaw clenching at the ache of it.
I should have left the room. Should have announced my presence before she ever touched herself.
But I didn’t.
I sat there, watching her, letting her ride the high of her own pleasure—until the moment she realized she wasn’t alone. Until the moment she locked eyes with me, and I saw the exact second when shame and arousal tangled together inside her.
I almost lost my fucking mind right there—almost broke every rule I’ve ever made about control. Almost crossed the room in three strides and showed her exactly what happens when you tease a man like me. Almost pinned her to those sheets and replaced that toy with something far more satisfying. Almost let the beast off its leash.
I almost did.
And when she sprawled there, mouth parted, skin flushed, her body a work of art beneath the golden glow of my bedroom lights, something dark unfurled inside me. Something possessive. Something raw.
I let her see what she did to me. Let her hear the hunger in my voice when I spoke.
And when that ridiculous, absurd vibrator hit my chest —when she sat there, watching me with wide, horrified eyes, lips trembling—I’d never been so fucking close to snapping in my life.
I should have fucked her last night.
Claimed her. Marked her.
Maybe then I wouldn’t be sitting here, dick aching, with the taste of her pleasure still haunting my senses like a ghost.
Pizda.
I push the thought aside as the office door opens.
Arseny Karpov strolls in, all six-foot-four of him, moving with that casual, unhurried arrogance that says he’s already ten steps ahead of the conversation. He’s in his usual uniform—dark slacks, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the edges of old scars, his wavy rusty hair barely tamed. He looks like he should be in a penthouse poker game, not sitting across from me with a ledger in one hand and a freshly brewed espresso in the other.
“Morning, boss.” He smirks. “Or should I say afternoon , given that you apparently decided to play vampire last night. Late meetings?”
“Something like that.” I close the file in front of me, exhaling through my nose.
He slides into the chair across from me. “I’m guessing it wasn’t book club.”
I give him a look. “What do you have?”
Arseny sighs like I just asked him to dig a trench with a spoon. “Oh, you know. The usual.” He flips open his ledger. “Financial projections are stable. Our newest project in Malibu is still tied up in zoning approvals, but the right people are getting their incentives, so it should clear soon.”
I nod. “And the warehouse?”
“No problems there. The product is moving clean, and I tweaked the route to avoid the new surveillance checkpoints on the 405.” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”
“Consider it part of your job.”
He huffs a laugh. “And here I was, expecting a fruit basket.”
I don’t humor him with a response. “Security reports?”
“Ah.” Arseny tosses a small black folder onto my desk. “That’s where things get fun. Two things of interest.”
I open the folder and scan the reports.
“First,” he continues, stretching like a cat, “your dear stepmother’s been making moves. Tatiana met with a few of our more… loyalty-flexible allies. She’s looking to fortify her position before the old man finally kicks the bucket.”
My jaw tightens. “Who?”
Arseny clicks his tongue. “Couple of the old guard. Names are in the report. Nothing official yet, but she’s laying the groundwork. Testing people.” He leans forward, his voice cooling. “She’s betting on Filipp. Betting on your father being too weak to stop her.”
She’s not wrong. The old man isn’t long for this world. And Tatiana? She never makes a move unless she’s already calculated the outcome.
She thinks she’s already won.
Arseny watches me carefully, waiting for a response.
I keep my voice even. “Let her play.”
His mouth twitches. “You sure? Because personally, I’d prefer to burn her plans to the ground before she even sets the match.”
I smirk. “We will. But we do it my way. Let her think she’s ahead. Let her think she’s got allies.” I tap the report. “Then we remind her whose city this really is.”
Arseny nods, his eyes dark with approval. “Now that’s the boss I know and tolerate.”
“Tolerate?” I arch an eyebrow at him. “Careful, Arseny. Your position isn’t so secure that you can’t end up managing our interests in Alaska.”
He clutches his chest in mock horror. “You wouldn’t. The cold is bad for my delicate constitution.”
“And yet you risk it.”
“Someone has to keep your ego in check.” He grins, utterly unrepentant. “Now, about that second thing…”
“The second thing?”
Arseny’s grin widens. He pulls out his iPad, fingers tapping with dramatic flair. “Ah, this is the fun part. Remember that list you asked for?”
“List?”
“Don’t play dumb, boss. It doesn’t suit you.” He swipes through screens. “The potential wives? The ones that would make the old guard stop bitching about you needing to settle down?”
Blyad. That list.
“I’ve narrowed it down.” His chest puffs up like a peacock. “Eliminated the gold diggers, the ones with political baggage, and anyone who’s ever posted a Live, Laugh, Love sign on Instagram.”
“How thorough of you.”
“I know, right?” He doesn’t catch my sarcasm. Or, more likely, he’s choosing to ignore it. “Check this out. I’ve organized them by net worth, social connections, and,” he waggles his eyebrows, “flexibility.”
“Flexibility?”
“You know, willingness to… overlook certain business practices.” He turns the iPad toward me. “Number three’s father is a judge. Could be useful. Number two has connections to—”
“Arseny.”
“—no family at all. Which is honestly a bonus, no in-laws to deal with—”
“Arseny.”
He stops mid-swipe, finally catching the look I’m giving him.
I take another sip of whiskey, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him twitch.
Then I reach forward and switch off the iPad.
His face twists into something between offense and betrayal. “What the fuck?”
I set the device down and meet his stare. “I’ve already decided.”
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “You— Wait. What?”
I let the corner of my mouth lift slightly, the closest thing to amusement I can manage. “I don’t need your list. I know who I’m taking as my wife.”
Arseny blinks. “Did you just…? Boss, I spent hours on that list. I even created a spreadsheet with color-coding and—”
“I don’t need the list.”
His face does something complicated, like he’s trying to process multiple emotions at once.
“What do you mean you don’t need the—?” He stops, eyes narrowing. “ Chyort voz’mi . You should’ve told me.”
I lean back in my chair. “The decision’s made.”
“Who?” His voice rises an octave. “Tell me it’s not that Instagram model with the pet tiger. Because I swear to God, boss, one high-maintenance predator in your life is enough, and I’m not talking about the tiger.”
“Isabella Marquez.”
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Who the fuck is Isabella Mar—?”
“Find out everything about her.”
His brows furrow. “You don’t know who she is?”
I don’t answer, letting the memory of last night wash over me instead. The way she looked sprawled across my sheets, how her skin flushed when she realized she wasn’t alone, those sounds she made while watching my portrait. Something dark and possessive stirs in my gut. No, she’s not getting away. Not after what she awakened in me.
His brows shoot up, his expression shifting from disbelief to amusement, then back to sheer, unfiltered confusion. “You’re not fucking with me.”
I roll my wrist, gesturing for him to get moving. “Start digging.”