19. Chapter 19
19
Konstantin
S he’s not exactly how I remembered.
No.
She looks even more fucking radiant, like she’s stepping straight out of my goddamn fantasies just to make my cock harder. Hair falling in careless waves, lips just a little too full, and those sharp eyes daring me to react. It puts me in a worse mood instantly.
She’s poured into a dress that should be illegal in a professional setting—black, form-fitting, the kind that clings to every curve like it was stitched directly onto her body. The neckline dips just enough to tease, giving me a hint of cleavage that makes my jaw tighten. The waist is cinched, emphasizing just how fucking small it is before the fabric stretches over the perfect curves of her hips and ass.
And those heels—tall, sleek, lethal.
She’s even more fucking dangerous wrapped up like this—it makes me want to strip her down, slow and deliberate, just to see if she shivers when I do it.
I’m still holding her hand. Still focused on her.
Because she’s been living in my head for days. Tying up every loose thought, sinking her fucking claws into me without even trying. And I let her—because the truth is, I didn’t want to think about anything else.
I didn’t buy this company for a good deal. I bought it for her.
James was already halfway out the door when I made the offer. The kind of man who talked about loyalty until it wasn’t convenient anymore. He was set to board a plane to Costa Rica, leaving behind a trail of unpaid invoices, a worthless office lease, and a staff who didn’t know they were about to be abandoned. Even his fucking desk was still cluttered with overpriced whiskey tumblers and crumpled notes from deals that never materialized.
I didn’t care about saving Elite Properties. I cared about the fact that Isabella Marquez had worked herself to the bone for a man who was about to disappear without a word.
So, I made him an offer. Ten dollars. That’s all he’d get. And in return, I’d clean up his mess—buy off his debts, settle what he owed to vendors, keep the doors open long enough to make the transition clean. He didn’t even hesitate. Just signed over everything, grabbed his passport, and vanished.
Her hand is small in mine—smooth but strong. I feel the faintest shiver run through her fingers, and her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something but can’t quite force the words out. And I like it. I like knowing she’s feeling something, whether it’s wariness or anticipation.
Because I know her.
I know Isabella Marquez isn’t the type to break easily. I know she’s fought tooth and nail against her aunt and uncle, the same family who should have protected her but instead tried to strip her of everything. I know the weight of raising two siblings on her own, of making impossible choices just to keep them safe. I know every late bill, every sacrifice, every desperate attempt to hold on to the home that should have been hers without a fight.
And I know her deep, dark fantasy.
Because she fucked herself in my bed.
She craves to submit to me.
She begged.
The more I know about this tiny woman, the more I want to unravel her. Holding her hand tighter in mine, I feel her pulse racing beneath my fingertips, the slight tremor she tries to suppress.
Eight years in this sinking ship of a company.
Eight years clawing her way up under a boss who spent more time stroking his own ego than running a business. James Cavanaugh. A silver-tongued dreamer who mistook charm for power. He thought high-profile listings and overpriced networking events were enough to keep the lights on. Thought schmoozing with the elite mattered more than balance sheets.
I’ve seen his kind before—men who believe money is infinite, that success is something you talk into existence rather than build. He burned through cash faster than he could earn it, funding renovations no one needed, throwing six-figure dinners to impress clients who would’ve signed either way. And when the market turned, his empire collapsed.
At first, the damage was manageable—late invoices, delayed payroll, a few missed payments. Then the cracks widened. Marketing budgets disappeared, property staging became impossible, and even basic operations started bleeding. And yet James refused to admit what Bella already knew.
That Elite Properties was dying.
He wasn’t cruel, just weak. Too sentimental to cut his losses, too hopeful to make the hard choices. He wanted to save the company, but wanting isn’t enough.
And now, Elite Properties is mine.
Not the company, of course. That was just an excuse to own her.
“Emmm… Excuse me.”
The voice grates—high-pitched, calculated, the kind of tone designed to command attention but does nothing except annoy the fuck out of me.
Sandra.
I don’t turn immediately. I already know what I’ll see—her standing just a little too close, trying to assert control before she loses it completely. She’s polished, plastic, and painfully predictable. The kind of woman who thrives on manufactured importance built entirely on the assumption that no one is paying close enough attention to notice the cracks.
I’ve read her file. The real one—not the one she submits to keep up appearances.
She’s been running side deals under the table, using the company’s name to pad her own pockets. Pocketing commissions, taking bribes, making sales that never officially exist. Cavanaugh was too incompetent to catch it, and even if he had, I doubt he would have done a damn thing about it.
She was banking on that same incompetence to keep her safe.
Too bad for her—I’m not incompetent.
I shift my weight slightly, still holding Bella’s hand in mine. I don’t miss the flicker of something sharp in Sandra’s expression when she notices, the way her gaze lingers just a little too long before snapping back up to my face.
Jealousy.
Interesting.
I don’t acknowledge Sandra.
Not a glance. Not a twitch of recognition.
She clears her throat like that’s supposed to summon my attention, but I stay focused on Isabella, still holding her hand in mine, watching the way her breath hitches. I can feel the tension rolling off her—uncertainty, maybe, or something else entirely.
Sandra shifts her weight, stepping closer, her perfume a choking mix of Chanel and desperation.
“Excuse me, but I don’t know who the hell you think you are, walking in here like you own the place—”
Arseny, standing just a few feet away, exhales sharply. He’s been quiet until now, observing because that’s what he does. But the second Sandra starts running her mouth, he steps forward.
“Ms. Rivera,” he announces, his tone crisp, professional—except for the faint edge of boredom that makes it clear he doesn’t think she’s worth the air she’s taking up. “Elite Properties has been officially acquired by Belov Global Holdings.”
Sandra lets out a short laugh. “I’m sorry, what?”
Arseny barely blinks. “The sale was finalized this morning. Mr. Cavanaugh no longer has any legal ownership over this company. As of today, it is under the direct control of Konstantin Belov.”
The color drains from Sandra’s face so fast I half expect her to faint.
“Wait. Wait. Belov Global Holdings?” She actually scoffs, but there’s a crack in her voice. “You expect me to believe that? The Belov Global Holdings? The one that just bought out—” She stops herself, lips pressing together.
Smart enough to know the name holds weight. Too dumb to realize she’s already lost.
“You’re lying.” She shakes her head, crossing her arms. “James wouldn’t—he didn’t mention anything about—”
“James,” Arseny interrupts smoothly, “is currently on a flight to Costa Rica.”
Sandra blinks. The reality is setting in.
“And,” Arseny continues, stepping forward as if she’s worth the effort of his time, “as per the terms of the acquisition, there will be a restructuring of leadership within the company.”
Sandra straightens, clearly scrambling for control. “Well, of course, I assume I’ll be integral in—”
“You will not.”
Silence.
Sandra’s jaw tightens, her lips parting like she might argue, but the way Arseny stares at her makes her hesitate. He’s not offering an opinion. He’s stating a fact.
“I—excuse me?” she stammers.
I finally turn to look at her. It’s brief. Just enough to let her see exactly what I think of her.
Nothing.
Arseny folds his hands in front of him, his posture impeccable, unshaken. “Ms. Rivera, your presence in this company is no longer required.”
Sandra’s mouth opens, then closes. “You— What?”
“You’re fired.” Arseny barely moves, but at his words, two men step forward—Belov security, sharp suits, colder eyes. They don’t touch Sandra, don’t have to. Just their presence alone tells her everything she needs to know.
This isn’t a debate.
This isn’t a misunderstanding.
This is the end of her.
Her breath shudders, her gaze darting between them, then back to Arseny. Her lips part like she wants to protest, but nothing comes out.
She knows.
With a sharp inhale, she snatches up her purse, spins on her heel, and storms toward the door. The men shadow her movements, ensuring she doesn’t pull anything stupid, but Sandra doesn’t even try. She knows better.
She throws one last glance over her shoulder, eyes burning with humiliated fury. But I don’t look at her. She’s already forgotten.
I’m still looking at the woman I’m holding.
Bella.
I finally let go of her hand, slow, deliberate, and the second I do, her fingers curl like she’s trying to process the fact that I was even touching her at all.
She looks stunned.
So fucking stunned that she can’t even speak.
I smirk, dragging my gaze over her—those sharp eyes, the tension in her jaw, the way her chest rises and falls just a little too quickly.
“Happy to see me again, Isabella?”
Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
That reaction alone makes my blood heat.
Because if she’s this shaken now, she has no idea what’s coming next.