20. Chapter 20
20
Bella
I don’t know what’s worse.
The fact that Mr. Portrait is here.
The fact that Mr. Portrait owns this company now.
Or the fact that he —who somehow manages to make my stomach drop and my core tighten at the same damn time—is smirking at me like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
Konstantin Belov.
My new boss.
Oh, fuck.
“Happy to see me again, Isabella?” His voice is deep, smooth—too damn confident.
I snap my mouth shut because what the hell am I supposed to say to that?
The last time I saw him, I was running out of his mansion like my life depended on it. And now? Now he’s standing in the middle of my office—except it’s not mine anymore, and it sure as hell isn’t James Cavanaugh’s either.
It belongs to him.
Oh. Shit.
The room is dead silent.
Mark is sitting at his desk, gripping his mouse like it’s a stress ball, his foot tapping so fast it’s making Jenna twitch. Jenna, meanwhile, still hasn’t moved from her desk, fingers hovering over her keyboard like she’s debating whether to google “how to survive a mafia takeover” or just start applying for new jobs right now.
Dan and Michelle are near the break room, frozen mid-conversation, while Elijah from finance—usually the calm, corporate type—looks like he’s about three seconds away from a full-blown existential crisis.
No one dares to move. No one dares to breathe.
Then—
“You will all be paid in full within twenty-four hours.” Konstantin’s voice slices through the silence like a blade. “Every commission, every salary—everything Cavanaugh owed you. Consider it settled.”
A stunned ripple moves through the room.
Mark lets out an awkward half-laugh, like maybe he misheard. Michelle presses a hand to her forehead. Elijah’s fingers twitch over his keyboard, probably about to check his bank account right now.
Jenna is the first one to speak. “Wait—you mean… we’re actually getting paid?”
Konstantin nods, calm as ever. “Within the day.”
Another pause. Then—
“Holy shit,” Mark breathes.
The disbelief in the room cracks—giving way to something dangerously close to hope.
Michelle actually laughs, half in shock, half in relief. Jenna drops into her chair like her legs have finally given out. Even Elijah—who rarely reacts to anything—mutters a low curse, shaking his head in amazement.
And I… I don’t know what the hell to feel.
On one hand, my commission coming in means I can breathe. I can cover this month’s bills. I can survive.
But it’s not enough.
Not for what I really need.
Not for the fight still ahead of me.
Because the twelve thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars I owe my lawyer? The money I need by Thursday, or I lose my parents’ house?
That’s still a problem.
I clench my jaw, pulse pounding.
The other man—the one who isn’t Konstantin but somehow still carries the same unsettling authority—clears his throat.
“We’ll need signatures on your new contracts with Belov Global Holdings. Everyone, follow me to the meeting room.”
There’s a shuffling of feet, papers rustling, quiet murmurs as people start moving toward the hallway.
I take a step to follow them.
The man—the one who just took control of this entire room without breaking a sweat—glances at me, then looks back at Konstantin.
“You,” he says smoothly, “will follow Mr. Belov to his office.”
My stomach drops.
His office?
As in, the main office. James’ office.
The one with the massive desk, the overpriced whiskey collection, the leather chairs that were more about power than comfort.
The one that, as of today, belongs to him.
“Why?”
The corner of his mouth curves—not quite a smirk, but something dangerously close.
“Because,” he says, his voice even, “I have a different contract ready for you.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I follow him.
Like a sad puppy.
Which is the worst part because my feet move before my brain does, and the moment I realize I’m obeying like some helpless, wide-eyed assistant in a mafia movie, it’s too late to turn back.
The door swings shut behind me.
I freeze.
Because this isn’t James’ office anymore.
Everything feels different with Konstantin in it.
Konstantin walks ahead of me as if he’s been in this space for years instead of minutes.
Then—he sits.
Like a warrior king settling onto his throne.
The chair is huge, built to dominate the room, but with him in it, it feels like it was made for him.
His expression shifts.
Serious.
I see him more clearly now. Sunlight pours through the window like it has a personal grudge against me, hitting just right—carving out the sharp angles of his jaw, the unfair perfection of his cheekbones, the faint crease near his brow that somehow makes him look even better.
What’s wrong with me?
I shouldn’t be noticing this. I shouldn’t care that time has only made him look better.
He gestures at the chair across from him. “Sit.”
I don’t move.
I can’t.
Because my brain is catching up way too fucking fast—
He’s going to bring it up.
Oh, my God, he’s going to talk about it. Me. Naked. In his mansion. Doing things no woman should ever do when a man is watching.
Fuckfuckfuck.
Heat crawls up my neck, my stomach flips, and suddenly, my entire body is reacting before he’s even said a word—
And before I can stop myself, I blurt out—
“Where’s my wallet?”
I force my spine straight, arms crossed, legs crossed, and my sanity desperately trying to follow.
His lips quirk up at one corner—that predatory half-smile that makes my insides turn to liquid.
“Is… that the only thing you’re concerned about?”
I squeak. Actually squeak like some demented mouse caught in a very expensive, very Russian trap. Because holy shit—he’s talking about my… my…
“You… you’ve stolen the thing!” The accusation bursts out before my brain can stop my mouth. “The… the birthday present!”
Oh God. Did I really just say that out loud?
“Stolen that thing?” He rolls the words around in his mouth like they’re amusing him. Like I’m amusing him.
“Yes! It’s… it’s creepy that you kept it!” I’m on a roll now, verbal diarrhea in full swing. “What kind of person keeps someone’s personal… personal… equipment ? That’s some serial killer-level stuff right there, Mr. Belov. I mean, what are you even doing with it? Actually, no—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. But it’s creepy. You’re creepy. This whole situation is—”
“Creepy?” His voice drops an octave, and suddenly, I remember who the actual creep is here. You know, the one who broke into his house and got intimate with her new toy while staring at his portrait?
Yeah. That would be me.
I want to crawl under his desk and die.
Or maybe just crawl under his desk and show him exactly what my mouth can do besides fumble over excuses. See if those custom-tailored pants hide as much as I think they do.
No. Bad Bella. Focus.
I am one second away from combusting.
“Ms. Marquez.”
I flinch.
“Sit.” He does this tiny head tilt thing toward the chair across from his desk. Like he can’t be bothered to waste actual energy on gestures when he’s used to people jumping at his slightest twitch.
I recoil like I’ve just been slapped. The way he says it—slow, deliberate, with too much fucking satisfaction curling at the edges—sends a jolt down my spine.
I hate it.
I hate that he’s watching me like this.
Like I’m a deer caught in the crosshairs.
Like he’s enjoying this.
His gaze drags over me, slow and lazy, from my ridiculous office-appropriate dress to my heels that suddenly feel way too high.
And then—
Oh, fuck.
He lingers. Right there. At my waist.
Then lower.
I swear I feel his stare through my clothes, stripping me layer by layer until I might as well be completely naked.
My cheeks burn.
His eyes darken.
And they stay there.
Lingering. Unapologetic.
I should look away. I should. But my brain malfunctions, firing off thoughts I do not need right now.
Like how easy it would be to slide to my knees, crawl across the floor, and—
Oh, my God. Stop.
Fucking stop.
I clear my throat and dry cough like I’m choking on my own depravity, and finally—finally—collapse into the chair like my knees have just given up on life.
I cross my legs.
Defensive.
My arms fold tight across my chest as if that’ll protect me from whatever this is.
It doesn’t.
It definitely fucking doesn’t.
Konstantin leans back.
The chair creaks under his sheer arrogance.
And through the stupidly perfect cut of his suit, I can see everything.
Thick forearms. Broad chest. Shoulders that could ruin lives.
And that neckline— Jesus.
His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to be a crime, the column of his throat strong, his jaw razor-sharp.
I am not looking at his hands.
I am not looking at his thighs.
I am absolutely not looking at anything that could potentially confirm that this man is built like he was sculpted by sin itself.
So, naturally, I start babbling.
“Look, Konstantin—” I stop. Swallow. Blink. Correct myself. “I mean, Mr. Belov.”
His head tilts slowly, like he’s dissecting me for weaknesses.
It makes me feel like a fucking idiot.
Why the hell am I acting like I just got called to the principal’s office?
I should shut up.
I should absolutely shut the fuck up.
But my mouth is still moving, my hands gesturing vaguely, like I can somehow mime my way out of the absolute catastrophe that was the other night.
“So—I just want to say I’m so sorry about the other night,” I start, waving my hands around like I’m physically swatting away my shame. “I mean, I wasn’t even supposed to be there. It was a complete accident, really—like, one of those weird, unfortunate mix-ups, you know?”
He’s not listening.
Oh, he hears me.
But he’s not listening.
His eyes do that thing—that slow, lazy, predatory scan that makes me feel exposed, like my clothes are a minor inconvenience, and he’s already remembering exactly what I looked like spread out on his sheets.
I feel the weight of it.
My skin goes hot, my pulse pounds in my throat, and suddenly, I am acutely aware of the space between us.
I’m still talking.
Why am I still talking?
My voice fades out as he moves.
Slow. Purposeful.
Click.
The briefcase lock releases.
Oh, no.
I go completely still.
Like a rabbit realizing too late that it’s already in the wolf’s mouth.
His fingers brush over the edges of a thick stack of papers, lifting them with deliberate ease before he slides them across the desk.
My stomach tightens.
A low thud echoes in my ears as the papers land in front of me, neat and pristine.
I stare at them.
Then at him.
His expression is calm. Unbothered. Dangerous.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
Because I already know this isn’t a job contract.
I reach for the stack—hesitant, reluctant, my pulse hammering in my ears—and the first line punches me square in the chest.
MARRIAGE AGREEMENT.
My fingers tighten on the edges of the contract.
I jerk my gaze up, panic latching onto my ribs.
His lips quirk—not quite a smirk, but something worse.
Something final.
“The only way you’re going to make up for breaking into my home,” he leans forward, forearms resting on the desk, his gaze locking me in place, “is to be Mrs. Belov in two weeks.”