23. Chapter 23
23
Bella
B y the time my butt hits the leather seat, I realize I’ve made a mistake.
I should’ve just said no.
No to the marriage contract. No to entertaining the idea for even a second. No to the way he watches me like he already knows how this ends. And most of all— no to bringing this damn contract with me.
Scratch that.
I’ve basically made a series of mistakes. A highlight reel of terrible decisions, all leading to this exact moment—sinking into the kind of car that I’ve only seen in movies, inhaling the scent of him embedded into the leather and the air itself. It’s the kind of scent that makes women weak in the knees and ruins lives in expensive hotel rooms. Dark spice, clean wood, something richer underneath. I grip my bag tighter, my fingers practically bruising the contract inside.
“Why the hell am I even going along with this?” I mutter, but the driver—Konstantin’s silent, sunglass-wearing shadow—doesn’t acknowledge me. He just pulls away from the curb, effortlessly maneuvering this beast of a car into the street.
This is what submission looks like, isn’t it? Sitting quietly in his car, letting his man drive me home without so much as a fight? Since when did I start accepting things like this? I should’ve refused. I should’ve walked out, slammed the door behind me, and taken the bus like a goddamn adult. No means no, right?
Except, apparently, no is a foreign concept when Konstantin Belov is involved. And instead of pushing back, here I am, going along with it.
I cross my arms, pressing myself against the door, determined to make this as awkward as possible. The driver doesn’t seem fazed. In fact, he doesn’t even check the GPS. He just knows where I live. Of course he does.
That realization sends another wave of panic slamming into my chest.
I stare at his profile in the rear-view mirror, the sharp angles of his face unreadable behind those mirrored sunglasses. He hasn’t said a word. Not once .
That’s normal, right? Just a totally normal, everyday, not-mafia thing?
Jesus. I need to stop watching crime documentaries.
I pull my bag closer, my nails digging into the leather strap. Inside, the contract feels heavier than paper has any right to be. I should take it out. Read it. Burn it. Instead, I glare out the tinted window, watching familiar streets blur past, my mind spinning with worst-case scenarios.
He didn’t threaten me. Didn’t coerce me. Didn’t force me into this.
So why does it feel like I’ve been marked? Like, no matter how far I run, he’ll always be two steps ahead?
The car slows, turning onto my street.
And that’s when I see it.
The rage hits first, sharp and fast. A familiar beige sedan parked right outside my house. A second, sleeker car I don’t recognize sitting beside it.
My whole body locks up.
Mike and Peggy.
Of course. Because my day wasn’t already a goddamn nightmare.
My jaw clenches so tight it’s a miracle my teeth don’t crack. They weren’t supposed to be here. I didn’t get a warning, no smug little “we need to talk” message from my aunt.
And the extra car?
My gut twists.
Lawyer? Realtor? One of their spineless enablers?
Before the car even comes to a full stop, I’m yanking at the door handle, ready to launch myself out and into battle. But the driver—because of course —has control of the locks.
The click of the doors unlocking feels deliberate, like he’s amused.
I whip around, narrowing my eyes. “That was unnecessary.”
His head tilts slightly, unreadable behind the mirrored lenses, as if he finds something about this amusing. But he doesn’t say a damn thing.
Rude.
I reach for the door handle, yanking it just to prove a point, but it doesn’t budge. Locked again. Of course. My jaw tightens. Before I can decide whether kicking it would be excessive, the driver steps out and, in an infuriating display of efficiency, opens the door for me.
I blink, caught off guard by the unexpected courtesy.
It’s not just the gesture—it’s the ease, the silent command in it, like this is just how things are done in Konstantin’s world. He’s tall—too tall, like six-foot-plus of pure muscle packed into a black suit. Built like a bull, shoulders wide enough to block out the sun.
And, of course, Mike and Peggy see it happen.
They immediately clock him, their reactions a mess of poorly concealed emotions. Mike stiffens, lips pressing into a thin, ugly line, while Peggy does this nervous little twitch, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She’s calculating. Processing. Trying to place him.
The driver gives me a polite nod before stepping back to the car. Then, without a word, he slides back into the car and pulls away, leaving me standing there like some mob wife whose security detail just dropped her off for brunch.
Mike and Peggy don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe, just stand there openly gawking as the car—Konstantin’s car—pulls away. The way their heads turn in unison, eyes trailing after it like they’re watching some rare beast slip back into the wild, makes my skin crawl.
I can see it happening in real-time—the math ticking away behind their beady little eyes. The calculations, the judgments. The inevitable, insufferable questions.
And then, right on cue—
“Well,” Peggy drawls, her lips curling into a saccharine smile. “That was quite the entrance.”
Mike snorts, all fake amusement and barely veiled hostility. “Didn’t know you had a chauffeur service these days, Bella. Business must be booming.”
I ignore the way my pulse spikes, the way their smugness creeps under my skin like an infection. I keep my face blank, unreadable.
They want a reaction.
They’re not getting one.
Instead, I shift my attention to the woman standing beside them.
Blonde. Mid-forties. Crisp, navy suit tailored within an inch of its life, subtle designer logo on the lapel. Her hair is smoothed back into the kind of bun that screams competence and a complete lack of patience for bullshit. And those shoes—sleek black pumps with the signature red sole.
Realtor.
A high-end one.
I know the type. I am the type.
Recognition flickers through me, sharp and cutting. Not just any realtor—she’s their realtor.
My stomach turns to stone.
They weren’t supposed to be here.
They weren’t supposed to have made it this far.
“What. The. Fuck. Are you doing here?” I bite out, my voice razor-sharp.
Peggy blinks, her fake-surprised expression so practiced that it almost looks real. Almost. “Language, Bella. No need to be hostile.”
Mike shakes his head like I’m some unruly child. “We’re just doing what’s necessary. Unlike you, we don’t have the luxury of playing pretend anymore.”
I take a slow, deliberate step forward. “Explain.”
Peggy exhales, exasperated, like she’s so tired of having to spell things out for me. “We’re evaluating the house.”
The words hit like a slap.
Evaluating.
They already have a fucking agent.
My blood roars in my ears, drowning out the distant hum of passing cars, the rustling of trees, the world itself.
“I wasn’t aware we were at that stage,” I say, voice deceptively calm.
Peggy’s smile sharpens. “Well, Bella, given your… situation , it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it?”
Mike chimes in, ever the smug bastard. “You’ve fought hard. We’ll give you that. But this?” He gestures at the house—the home I’ve bled for, sacrificed for, fought for. “You can’t afford this. You can’t afford to raise two kids and keep up with a property like this. It’s not realistic.”
I don’t even realize my hands have curled into fists until my nails dig into my palms.
“That’s not your decision to make.”
Peggy hums like she’s considering that. “It’s the court’s decision.”
I want to scream. Rip that condescending look right off her face. But I don’t.
I inhale slowly. Exhale even slower.
They think they’ve won. They think I have no options left.
That I’ll roll over. Surrender.
But they don’t know what I have in my purse.
They don’t know that desperation has a way of creating opportunities.
The contract.
Suddenly, it doesn’t feel so outrageous. If anything, it’s starting to look a hell of a lot like my only way out.
I could secure the house. Secure my siblings’ future.
They don’t know the deal sitting just within my reach, waiting for me to stop pretending I have a choice.
Because maybe I don’t .
Maybe this isn’t about pride anymore.
Maybe it’s about survival.