21. Chapter 21
21
Bella
“ N o.”
The word tumbles out of my mouth like a drunk person falling down stairs. Inelegant. Messy. A little hysterical.
“What? No— I mean, no. Hell no.” I push back from his desk so fast my chair nearly tips. “Are you insane? Like, actually criminally insane?”
He doesn’t even blink.
“Your commission will be paid regardless,” he says, like we’re discussing the weather and not some batshit crazy marriage proposal. “You’re free to leave.”
Wait.
What?
I freeze halfway out of my chair, stuck in this awkward half-crouch that probably makes me look like I’m about to take the world’s most confused shit.
“I’m… free to leave?”
“Of course.” He starts organizing papers on his desk, dismissing me like I’m some minor inconvenience he’s already forgotten about. “The door is right there.”
My mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens again.
Because what the actual fuck?
Two minutes ago, he was eye-fucking me into next Tuesday, and now he’s basically showing me the door with all the emotion of someone tossing out week-old takeout?
“That’s it?” The words scratch out of my throat. “You’re not going to… I don’t know, threaten me? Blackmail me with the security footage?”
His eyes flick up to mine.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough to make my stomach drop to my toes.
“Why would I need to threaten you?” His voice is soft. Dangerous.
I should be relieved. Grateful, even. He’s letting me walk away. No threats. No blackmail. No concrete shoes for the real estate agent who broke into his mansion and defiled his Egyptian cotton sheets.
But all I feel is… confused? Disappointed?
Wait. Disappointed?
What the actual fuck is wrong with me?
“Well, because… I don’t know, because of what I did before?” My voice trails off pathetically. I sound like I’m fishing for a punishment, which is so screwed up that I can’t even begin to unpack it.
He just watches me, expressionless, like I’m some mildly interesting documentary on cable TV.
“Why…” I swallow hard. “Why would you want to marry me?”
He leans against the leather wingback, the material creaking beneath his weight. Power looks good on him. Too good.
“Because you need the money, and I need a wife.”
Simple. Transactional. Like he’s ordering coffee, not proposing a life-altering arrangement.
My jaw goes slack. “How—how do you know I need money?”
One eyebrow lifts a little. Like I’ve asked the most obvious question in the world.
“Twelve thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars,” he recites the exact amount I owe my lawyer. “Due this Thursday. Otherwise, you lose your parents’ house.
Ice floods my veins.
“How could you possibly know that?”
His lips quirk—that not-quite-smile that makes my stomach flip despite myself.
“I know everything about you, Isabella.” He taps a finger against the contract. “Including that your commission won’t cover even half your debt.”
I should run. I should absolutely be sprinting out that door right now. But my feet stay rooted to the floor, and something dark and desperate unfurls in my chest.
“And you’d just… pay it off? Just like that?”
“The debt will be cleared before close of business today.” He gestures to the contract again. “Plus, you’ll be installed as head of sales. Double your current salary.”
I stare at him, searching for the lie, the trap, the fine print written in blood.
I meet his steely gaze, and the worst part? He’s not lying.
He’s not going to chase me. Not going to try to convince me. He’s just… letting me decide.
And somehow, that pisses me off more than if he’d threatened me.
Wait.
What?
Did I actually want him to fight for me? To insist? To show that he—?
Stop it, Bella. Jesus Christ. Get your shit together.
I shake my head as if it will clear my mind.
“Why me?” I ask, my voice smaller than I want it to be. “You could literally have anyone.”
“I don’t want anyone.” His voice drops just slightly. “I want you.”
The words slam into me like a physical force. They shouldn’t affect me. They’re probably just another manipulation tactic in his arsenal.
But God help me, they do.
My eyes drift to the contract between us. Crisp white paper. Black text. The words “MARRIAGE AGREEMENT” staring back at me like an accusation.
He wants me.
My pulse thumps in my ears, drowning out the logical part of my brain that’s screaming about red flags and stranger danger, and oh my God, he’s literally the Russian mob.
I shouldn’t be flattered. I shouldn’t be intrigued. I definitely shouldn’t be feeling this weird, hot sensation spreading from my chest to places significantly lower.
But holy shit—did Konstantin Belov, ruthless businessman and walking sin in a tailored suit, just admit he wants me?
My fingers twitch toward the contract. What exactly does “being Mrs. Belov” entail? There must be rules. Boundaries. Expectations.
Reading material before signing is Real Estate 101. But here I am, considering a contract that has nothing to do with square footage and everything to do with how this man makes me feel like I’m constantly teetering on the edge of something dangerous.
“What’s in it for you?” I ask, trying for suspicious but landing somewhere closer to breathless. “Besides a—wife.” I almost choke on the word. Wife. Mrs. Belov. Walking around with his name and his ring and his… everything else.
His eyes never leave mine as he reaches out, flips the contract open to page three, and slides it closer to me.
“Read it.” Two syllables. A command, not a request.
And yet, my treacherous body responds like he’s whispered something filthy against my skin.
I glance down, trying to focus on legal jargon instead of how his cologne is suddenly all I can smell—sin and masculinity.
“One year,” I read aloud, my voice embarrassingly unsteady. “Public appearances. Exclusive…” My breath catches. “Physical relationship.”
I drag my eyes back to his. He’s watching me with that same intensity that makes me feel like I’m the only person in his universe.
“You’re buying me,” I whisper, but there’s no real accusation in it. Just the stark, simple truth.
His jaw tightens slightly. “I’m offering you a solution. One that benefits us both.”
“And after the year? What then?”
Something flickers across his face. Something I can’t quite read.
“After the year,” he says softly, “you’ll be free. With enough money to never worry about your parents’ house again.”
I don’t know why I’m still here. I should walk out right now and never look back.
Instead, I’m calculating exactly how many of my problems this would solve.
Julian’s college tuition, due next month. Lila’s art therapy sessions that she pretends to hate but secretly needs, plus the stack of expensive sketchbooks and professional-grade acrylics she thinks I don’t know she’s been eyeing online. The roof that’s been leaking into the upstairs bathroom for so long we’ve just normalized keeping a bucket there.
I swallow hard, hating how tempting he’s making this sound. Hating even more how my body’s already decided for me.
“So, how many times are we supposed to have this physical relationship?” The question bursts out of me like a sneeze—sudden, unstoppable, and completely mortifying.
His eyebrows lift slightly, and for the first time, I’ve caught him off guard.
Great job, Bella. Now you sound like you’re negotiating sex terms. Like you’re drawing up a fuck schedule.
“I mean—” I backpedal so fast I nearly trip over my own words. “I’m just asking for clarification. On the terms. You know, for legal purposes.”
Legal purposes? What are you, a horny lawyer?
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches me with those storm-cloud eyes, his expression unreadable.
Then he says, “As often as we both want.”
My body flushes hot, then cold, then hot again. The way he says “want”—like it’s something dark and dangerous we both know is already there.
Because he knows. He’s seen the evidence of exactly what effect he has on me, spread across his sheets with battery-operated assistance.
“Right.” I’m aiming for casual, but it comes out strangled. “So like, what? Twice a week? Three times?”
Stop talking about sex schedules. STOP.
“Are you looking for a minimum guarantee, Ms. Marquez?” Now there’s definitely amusement in his voice, though his face remains impassive. “Should I add a clause stipulating frequency?”
I want to die. Right here. Just have the earth open up and swallow me whole.
“No! God, no. I just—” I take a deep breath. “You’re asking me to marry you. To sleep with you. To pretend to be your wife. For an entire year. That’s… a lot.”
Something in his expression softens—just barely, just around the edges. It’s like watching ice crack, revealing depths underneath.
“It is,” he agrees, and there’s something in his voice I haven’t heard before. Something almost gentle. “Which is why I’m not forcing you.”
He leans forward slightly, and the air between us shifts.
“You have two days to think about this.”
I blink at him, waiting for the punchline. For the “just kidding, sign it now or else” that should be coming.
It doesn’t.
Instead, he closes the contract, slides it into a pristine manila folder, and extends it to me.
“Take it home. Read it carefully.” His fingers brush against mine as I accept the folder, and the contact sends electricity shooting up my arm. “You can take a day off today and tomorrow.”
The confidence in his voice should piss me off. Instead, it sends a shiver down my spine.
He reaches for his suit jacket, and I watch, mesmerized, as he slides it on with practiced ease. “I have another meeting. My driver will take you home.”
And just like that, I’m dismissed.