27. Chapter 27
27
Bella
Two days later
I ’m halfway through my second cup of coffee when Julian stumbles into the kitchen, still half-asleep, rubbing a hand over his face like it physically pains him to be awake.
“Whoa.” He stops mid-step, his bleary eyes snapping into focus. “Uh. Are you… going somewhere?”
Lila isn’t far behind. She’s in one of my oversized hoodies, her hair a wild mess, clutching her phone. She glances up at me, squints, then lets out a dramatic gasp.
“Oh, my God, are you… dressed to impress?”
I roll my eyes and take a sip of my coffee. “Maybe I just wanted to remind myself that I’m a functional adult who owns something other than sweatpants.”
“You put on lipstick.” Julian gestures vaguely at my mouth like it’s an act of betrayal. “Red lipstick. This is serious.”
He’s not wrong. The last two days have been hell. My decision has flipped from yes to no, to no to yes so many times, I’m surprised I haven’t given myself whiplash. Every time I look at my phone, I expect… something. A message? A sign? Divine intervention? But nothing comes. Just silence. And I hate silence.
So, today, I woke up early. I put on my best fitted blazer, the one that says, “I know exactly what I’m doing,” even though I definitely don’t. I swiped on the red lipstick—because red is confidence, and confidence is a requirement when making a deal with the devil. And today, I am walking straight into hell.
“I’m meeting someone.” I set my coffee down, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my pants.
“A date?” Lila’s eyes light up, her phone abandoned on the counter.
Julian snorts. “Yeah, right. Bella doesn’t date. Bella works. Bella stress-eats cereal straight out of the box and argues with the toaster.”
“First of all, the toaster started it,” I say, pointing at him. “Second, it’s not a date. It’s business.”
Lila and Julian exchange a look, and I don’t appreciate whatever silent conversation is happening between them.
“Business?” Julian crosses his arms, leaning against the counter. “What kind of business requires red lipstick at seven-thirty in the morning, before we even leave for school?”
I open my mouth, then shut it. They don’t know. Not yet. And the words feel too big, too heavy to say out loud.
Instead, I take a deep breath, grab my house keys, and sling my bag over my shoulder. “The kind that changes everything.”
The Uber rolls to a stop, and I step out, my fingers curling around the strap of my purse. The contract sits inside, crisp and unyielding, a weight heavier than paper. I think I know what I’m going to say. What I need to ask. What I refuse to compromise on.
But then I look up.
Belov Global Holdings.
It’s not a building—it’s a fortress. A glistening tower of glass and steel, rising into the skyline like it owns the city. And maybe it does. I gulp, craning my neck, feeling absurdly small in the face of something so impossibly massive. My nerves had been manageable five minutes ago. Now, standing at the entrance of this empire, I feel like I’m walking into an entirely different world.
The revolving glass doors slide open as I step inside, and if the exterior was intimidating, the interior is a power move. The lobby is a cathedral of wealth—soaring ceilings, polished marble floors, sleek black and chrome accents that scream luxury without trying too hard. A colossal chandelier hangs above, a piece of modern art masquerading as lighting, casting fractals of light across the walls.
The people match the space.
Suits that cost more than my car glide across the floor, their wearers speaking into earpieces, murmuring in languages I don’t recognize. Agents—because these aren’t just real estate brokers, they’re agents—move with precision, discussing billion-dollar deals, land acquisitions, and industrial contracts with the kind of ease most people order coffee. This isn’t just about selling luxury penthouses and beachfront estates. Belov Global Holdings owns entire sections of the world.
And me? I’m standing here in a blazer that suddenly feels like a clearance rack special.
I square my shoulders and head to the reception desk. The woman behind it is immaculate—ice-blonde hair twisted into a bun, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, a headset perched perfectly over one ear. She looks at me the way one might assess an unexpected stain on a silk dress.
“Can I help you?” Her tone is so polished that I can practically see my own reflection in it.
“Isabella Marquez. I have a meeting with Konstantin Belov.”
Her fingers hover over the keyboard, nails tapping like a coded message. She flicks her gaze over me again, from my red lipstick to my practical heels, and then types something with the kind of practiced disinterest that suggests I am very much not the usual clientele.
“Take the elevator to the top floor.” She nods toward a sleek bank of elevators to my left. “You’ll be directed from there.”
I murmur thanks and step toward the elevators, exhaling slowly. One hurdle down.
The ride up is silent, save for the soft whir of the ascent. My reflection stares back at me in the mirrored walls, the contract practically burning a hole in my purse. I steel myself, repeating the points I need to make. Lila. Julian. The house. The terms. No loopholes.
The elevator dings.
The top floor is even more intimidating than the lobby.
Here, everything is muted elegance—dark wood, soft lighting, and walls lined with abstract paintings that are clearly originals. A massive window stretches across one side, offering a sweeping view of the city, like the universe itself is bowing to whoever owns this space.
A second receptionist—this one in a fitted black dress that looks personally tailored—barely glances up from her desk before gesturing to a seating area.
“Mr. Belov will see you shortly. Please have a seat.”
I nod, pressing my lips together as I lower myself onto one of the impossibly plush chairs. The leather is buttery soft, the kind you sink into, but I refuse to let it drown me.
I sit upright, back stiff, purse in my lap, contract inside.
And then I wait.
My gaze flicks around the office, taking in the high-end penthouse setup. It’s more than just an office—it’s a statement. Shelves lined with sleek black binders and gold-lettered files, a massive glass case displaying luxury development models, and framed photos of towering skyscrapers he owns.
People move through the space like they belong in a world where money isn’t just power—it’s air. Men and women dressed to kill, stilettos clicking against the floor, expensive suits fitted within an inch of perfection. It’s barely past eight in the morning, and they already look like they’ve conquered something.
Then I see him.
Through a large glass panel to my left, a massive desk sits in the center of a room that looks more like a command station than an office. And behind it—
Konstantin Belov.
My heart stutters like a goddamn idiot.
How? How is it possible that every time I see this man, he looks a little more devastating? Like his face is going through some slow, insidious upgrade into an even more lethal version of himself?
He’s speaking to someone, his body half-turned, one hand resting against the desk, the other casually adjusting the lapel of his jacket. The power in that one small movement is obscene. Like he’s not just adjusting fabric but recalibrating reality itself.
And then it hits me.
I am here to meet my future husband.
The man I’ll be married to.
The man I will have sex with.
Oh.
My brain short-circuits. My imagination betrays me in real-time. That desk—that ridiculously large, ridiculously expensive desk—would he? Would he throw me onto it, pin me down, and—
A sharp ring cuts through the air.
The receptionist’s phone.
I jump like I’ve been electrocuted, my heart slamming into my ribs as if someone just read my thoughts out loud.
I cough. A dry, awkward sound that does nothing to clear the filth from my mind.
Focus.
Lila. Julian. The terms. The contract.
Not the way he’d look with his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up, pinning me to that desk, and—
I squeeze my eyes shut.
The receptionist murmurs something into the phone, then glances up at me.
“Mr. Belov will see you now.”
I exhale slowly.
Then I stand, smooth my blazer, and step toward the door.
Toward him.