25. Chapter 25
25
Bella
I ’ve read the contract twenty-seven times.
Maybe twenty-eight.
I’ve lost count somewhere between the third nervous breakdown and the fiftieth time I paced the length of my living room, muttering like a madwoman. The papers are a mess now—creased, wrinkled, practically abused—sprawled across my kitchen table like a crime scene. A damn good metaphor for what my life is about to become.
A marriage contract.
With Konstantin Belov.
I drag both hands down my face, groaning at the absurdity of it all. The words swim in front of me, burned into my brain from how many times I’ve read them. The terms are ridiculous, the kind of thing that belongs in mafia romance novels, not real life.
A legal union with an expiration date.
One year.
Twelve months.
Three hundred and sixty-five days.
Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours.
Five hundred and twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.
Not that I’m counting.
In exchange, a financial arrangement that should make me feel disgusted—but doesn’t. Three hundred and forty thousand dollars. Not in some off-the-books hush money. Not as a lump sum, like I’m a bought-and-paid-for possession.
A salary.
Director of Sales at Elite Properties.
A position with power. With resources. With an actual title that can open doors for me long after this deal ends.
And more than that—a promise.
He’ll win back my parents’ house from Mike and Peggy. He’ll wipe them off the board like they’re nothing but inconvenient pieces in a game he’s already won.
That’s what it costs to buy me.
No. Not buy.
Secure me.
Because that’s what this is—a transaction wrapped up in a polished, cold-blooded contract that doesn’t even pretend to be romantic.
He’s willing to pay off every debt in my name. Every bill. Every past-due notice bleeding red across my kitchen counter.
He’ll erase it all.
More than that—he’ll secure the house.
No legal battles. No fights with Mike and Peggy. No patronizing lectures from realtors pretending to be empathetic while circling like vultures over my family’s legacy.
Just mine.
Ours.
My fingers tighten around my phone as I glare at the business card sitting next to the contract.
Black. Heavy stock. Minimalist.
Konstantin Belov, CEO.
CEO of what, exactly?
Belov Global Holdings.
A name I recognize. Of course I do.
Three hours of frantic googling at 2 a.m. can do wonders for your research skills. “Russian billionaire California” had yielded plenty—mostly photos of him looking murderous in custom suits.
Then I’d gone deeper. “Konstantin Belov mafia” brought up speculation, rumors, Reddit threads analyzing suspicious business acquisitions, and one particularly passionate blogger convinced he’d witnessed a Belov-ordered hit at a San Francisco restaurant. (The “victim” later appeared on a reality TV show, so probably not.)
I mean, the internet is full of conspiracy theories about successful Russian businessmen, right? People see a man with money and an accent and immediately assume he's some kind of criminal mastermind. It's basically xenophobia dressed up as internet sleuthing.
And the business acquisitions? Every billionaire has made aggressive moves. That's capitalism 101. You don't get to the top by being nice. Look at Elon Musk. Jeff Bezos. They didn't build empires by playing fair.
Besides, if Konstantin was actually some Bratva kingpin, he wouldn't be operating in plain sight with his name on buildings. He'd be hiding in some underground bunker in Moscow, not sitting in a corner office in California with his face on the company website.
Right.
I'm pretty sure running into actual Russian mafia is about as likely as finding affordable housing in San Francisco—theoretically possible but statistically improbable.
This isn't a Netflix series. I'm just a sleep-deprived real estate agent with an overactive imagination and too many true crime podcasts in my Spotify history.
“Hah!” I actually snort-laugh at myself.
God, my fear has officially driven me insane. I've crossed the line from stressed to delusional.
I gulp down the rest of my coffee—now ice-cold and bitter—and dive deeper into the Konstantin Belov rabbit hole. Wife: none. Children: three.
Three kids! He’s a single dad. A hot, possibly dangerous, definitely domineering single father with arms that look like they could—
No. Stop it.
What is wrong with me?
“Ugggghhhh.” The groan that escapes me is deep, guttural, and mortifying. He’s not just rich—he’s a real estate tycoon. His company owns developments, luxury high-rises, billion-dollar commercial properties in every major city. I’ve worked in this industry for eight years. I’ve pitched clients that worked under his empire.
He’s the kind of man you hear about but never meet. The kind that buys entire blocks of prime real estate with a single phone call and ruins competitors without breaking a sweat.
And now?
He wants me.
I flick the edge of the card with my nail. Stare at the number printed beneath his name.
I already programmed it into my phone, but my thumb hovers over the screen like a coward.
Just text him.
Say something.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I type out a message.
Me: Read the contract. You’re insane.
I stare at the screen. Consider adding something else. Something that makes me sound less like a feral raccoon forced into a marriage contract.
Before I can change my mind, I hit send .
And then I wait.
And wait.
And—nothing.
No read receipt. No dots. No sign of life.
Goddamn it.
I toss my phone onto the couch and walk away before I throw it through a window.
I don’t even realize I’m pacing again until my foot slams into a stack of unopened mail.
Bills.
Past-due notices.
A lovely reminder that I’m already drowning.
My jaw clenches as I bend down and rifle through them.
Property taxes—months overdue.
Legal fees—piling up from fighting Mike and Peggy.
Utilities—final notice.
I slap the envelopes onto the kitchen counter and let out a slow, shaky breath.
This is it.
This is why I’m even considering this insanity.
Because without Konstantin’s offer?
I lose everything.
And worse? I lose Julian and Lila.
My stomach knots. That’s the one thing the contract doesn’t cover.
Where do my siblings fit into this deal?
Julian is 17—technically old enough to choose where he wants to be.
But Lila?
Lila is only 14.
She needs me.
My hands are shaking when I call Elena.
She picks up on the second ring. “What happened?”
I take a breath, but it comes out shaky. “Mike and Peggy were here.”
A beat of silence. Then her voice drops. “What did they do?”
I collapse onto the couch, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead. “They brought a realtor.”
Her gasp is sharp. “They’re actually selling it?”
“They’re trying.” My stomach twists. “They think I have no money left to fight.”
Elena curses under her breath. “What are you going to do?”
I stare at the contract on the table.
The words blur together. But I don’t need to read them again—I already know what they say.
I suck in a breath. “I have an offer.”
Another pause. “From who?”
And then, before I can second-guess myself, I tell her everything.
The contract. The money. The goddamn marriage.
She listens. Lets me unravel.
And then—
“…Bella.”
“I know.”
“You’re actually considering it?”
I exhale, pressing my eyes shut. “I don’t have a choice.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. And then—
“What about Julian and Lila?”
I freeze.
Because that’s the one question I don’t have an answer to.
I flip through the contract again. Scour every single page.
But there’s nothing.
No mention of them. No clause about what happens to my siblings if I take this deal.
A sick feeling coils in my stomach.
“El,” I whisper. “It doesn’t say.”
There’s a pause, and I can practically hear her brain whirring through the phone. “You’re sure? Nothing about family, dependents, custody—”
“Nothing,” I cut in, gripping the pages like I can squeeze an answer out of them. “It’s all financials, business obligations, public appearances, and,” I grimace, flipping to the section I’ve been aggressively avoiding, “marital duties.”
Elena snorts. “You mean sex.”
“I mean appearances.”
“Appearances, my ass.”
I open my mouth to argue, but a muffled voice on her end interrupts—sharp, impatient, and absolutely not me.
“Elena!”
I hear rustling, then a deep sigh before she calls out, “Two seconds, Geoff!”
There’s another exasperated huff. “We’re literally brainstorming a title about the art of faking orgasms. I need you engaged.”
I blink. “The what now?”
Elena groans. “It’s ‘Faking It: A Tactical Guide to the Orgasm Cold War.’”
My brain short-circuits. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish,” she mutters. “Apparently, statistics show that sixty-three percent of women fake orgasms, and Geoff thinks we need to ‘empower them through deception.’”
“By giving them tactics?”
“Apparently, lying with purpose is feminist now.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Right? But if I don’t contribute, he’s gonna make me write an opinion piece on why men who play video games are undateable.”
I frown. “That’s an actual article?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s called ‘Red Flag or Red Dead Redemption?’”
I wheeze. “You need to quit.”
“I know!” Elena whisper-yells, then quickly clears her throat. “Geoff, I’m coming! Bella, I gotta go before he makes me write about joystick dysfunction.”
“Wait—”
Click.
She’s gone.
I stare at my phone, stunned, and for a brief second, I almost forget my entire life is on fire.
But reality snaps back fast.
I sit there, clutching my phone, staring at the contract, heart hammering.
I have two choices.
Ignore this. Find another way.
Go to Konstantin and demand answers.
I don’t have time for option one.
I text him again.
Me: We need to talk.
I toss my phone onto the couch and immediately regret it. What if he texts back? What if he calls? What if I just made a terrible mistake and should’ve worded that better?
No. Nope.
I need to do something. Anything.
I glance around my disaster of a living room, and suddenly, I can’t stand it. The mess. The clutter. The suffocating feeling that my life is one gust of wind away from complete collapse.
So I grab the vacuum.
The moment I press the power button, the familiar whooshing roar drowns out my thoughts, and for a glorious thirty seconds, I almost feel in control.
Then my brain fires off like a deranged pinball machine.
I’m planning to marry Konstantin Belov.
I violently shove the vacuum forward.
I’m considering signing a contract. With a man who could buy and sell my entire existence without blinking.
Pull it back.
He smells expensive.
Shove forward.
Like cedarwood and sin.
Jesus Christ.
I turn the dial to MAXIMUM SUCTION like that’s going to help.
Because this is not the time to be thinking about Konstantin and the way his suit fit when I saw him today.
Or the way his voice felt more than it sounded.
Or the way he looked at me like he was already certain of my answer.
Or would those strong hands pin mine above my head? Would he make me beg or—
I slam my brain's emergency brake.
Oh, my God.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I clutch the vacuum handle like a lifeline, suddenly overheating.
Because there is a clause.
Right there, page three, section five.
Physical relationship: As often as we both want.
A wife in name and presence.
I groan and turn the vacuum off.
This is not helping.
I need order .
Structure.
A clear head.
So, I move on to the next logical thing: decluttering my kitchen like my soul depends on it.
And that’s when I find the drawer.
The one every house has. The junk drawer.
Old batteries. A wad of tangled chargers. A key to something that I no longer own. A rogue tampon.
Receipts from Walmart—because apparently, at some point, I thought tracking my grocery spending would fix my financial situation. That lasted exactly one week before I shoved everything into this drawer and pretended budgeting was a myth.
And—oh, look—an entire bottle of expired ibuprofen from three years ago. Probably a relic from my last migraine-inducing life crisis.
My phone buzzes.
I jump, nearly knocking over the drawer, then lunge for my phone from where I threw it earlier.
A text.
Short. Cold.
Konstantin Belov: Meet me at Belov Global Holdings on Wednesday.
I stare at the screen, my heart hammering.
Two days.
He’s making me wait.
My phone buzzes again.
Elena: So, you’re getting married AND getting rich? Love that for you. Some of us have to actually work.
I groan.
Me: It’s not like that.
Elena: No? He’s paying you? He’s putting a ring on it? Babe, you’re literally the plot of a 90s rom-com, minus the quirky montage.
Me: I hate you.
Elena: I accept that. But more importantly—will you get a driver? Because I refuse to let my best friend show up to brunch in Betsy.
I drop my phone onto the counter.
This is not my life.
Except… apparently, it is.