28. Chapter 28
28
Konstantin
I could have scheduled to meet her anywhere. One of my penthouses, my estate on the outskirts of the city, even the restaurant I own downtown. Privacy and discretion are never in short supply when you own half the city. Yet I choose my office—my fortress.
Because this isn’t personal. This is business.
Except my body doesn’t seem to understand that.
Timur and Arseny are still in the room, but my attention isn’t on them. Not anymore. The moment she steps inside, I know.
She’s fire.
The last two days have been… interesting. I don’t allow uncertainty in my decisions, but Bella Marquez has made me weigh every angle twice. That’s the problem—there’s no other option that fits. I’ve looked. Considered. Examined every potential alternative with the same ruthless precision I use to dismantle competitors. Any woman can wear the title of “wife.” But none of them are her.
Most of them were raised for luxury, for leisure—groomed to marry rich men and bear heirs, not raise them. None of them have fought for survival, clawed through life’s wreckage to keep a family intact. None of them have bled for the people they love.
Bella has.
That’s why she’s the right choice. She needs this, and she’s not someone who can just walk away or vanish when things get hard.
“Are we finished?” I ask, not bothering to look up from the documents spread across my desk.
Arseny shifts in his seat, a barely perceptible tightening around his eyes. “The increased security detail for your father has been arranged. Twice the usual number, all personally vetted by Timur.”
I lift my gaze to Timur, who stands by the window, his broad frame silhouetted against the city skyline. The scar across his cheek catches the light when he turns.
“No one gets within fifty feet of the Pakhan without my knowledge,” Timur says, his voice a low rumble. “I’ve installed our most loyal men. If someone is planning something, we’ll know.”
I tap my fingers against the smooth mahogany of my desk. “And the information leak?”
“Contained,” Timur answers, the word clipped. The meaning clear. Whoever spoke out of turn won’t be speaking again.
Arseny, who’s been unusually quiet, lets out a low whistle. “The Pakhan must have made a deal with the devil himself,” he says, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “Six months in a coma and then,” he snaps his fingers, “back among the living. Even Death doesn’t dare challenge Anatoly Belov.”
I shoot him a warning glance, but there’s a grain of truth in his irreverence. My father has always been… resilient. Unnaturally so.
“My father has crawled back from hell before,” I say. “This time is no different.”
“And now he’s back,” Timur says, his voice low with an admiration that borders on superstition. “He opened his eyes twice yesterday.”
I remember those moments. Standing beside the bed, watching as those steel-gray eyes—so like my own—fluttered open. They fixed on me with startling clarity before closing again. No words exchanged. None needed. The message was clear: not yet. The Pakhan wasn’t ready to relinquish his throne.
“Everyone thought he wouldn’t make it through the night,” I say, my voice cool despite the rage simmering beneath. “Some were counting on it.”
Arseny’s expression sobers immediately. He knows who I mean. The snake Tatiana, with her hollow sympathies and calculating eyes. My useless stepbrother, Filipp, already mentally dividing the empire that isn’t his to claim.
“I want surveillance doubled on Tatiana and Fillip,” I tell Timur. “Every call, every meeting, every whispered conversation. I want to know who they’re speaking to and why.”
Timur nods, his scarred face grim with understanding. “Consider it done.”
I shift slightly, my eyes flicking toward the wall of glass.
Arseny follows my gaze, then lets out a quiet chuckle. “Well… well… well, look who’s here early.”
She’s sitting just outside my office, oblivious to the way my attention has already fucking locked onto her. The way she sits—spine straight, legs crossed in a way that makes my mouth dry, one heel dangling off her foot like she couldn’t be bothered to care. Her head tilts slightly, glossy waves of dark hair spilling over her shoulder as she scrolls through her phone, completely unaware that she’s just become the center of my goddamn world.
Arseny makes a low, amused sound, like a man discovering a hidden weakness he intends to exploit.
“Jesus Christ, boss. You’re staring like you want to fuck her through the glass.”
I don’t answer. Because he’s not wrong.
Timur, being the smarter of the two, says nothing. Arseny, of course, is not Timur.
He leans in, lowering his voice like we’re conspiring. “That explains why you’re acting like a man who hasn’t slept in two days.”
I cut him a sharp look, but he only smirks.
“Which is it, boss? Can’t sleep because she’s in your bed or because she’s not?”
Timur exhales, the kind of long-suffering sigh of a man who knows he’s about to witness some violence.
I grip the edge of my desk, fighting the urge to put a bullet in Arseny’s knee. “Do you ever shut the fuck up?”
“Not when I’m entertained.” He nods toward Bella, who’s still blissfully unaware of the absolute fucking chaos she’s causing. “And this? This is very entertaining.”
I glance back at her. She shifts slightly, the movement sending a ripple of something hot and dark through me. She’s wearing a blazer—supposed to be professional, supposed to cover her up—but it does a shit job of it. Her tits are too fucking huge for the fabric to behave, the single button barely holding on, like it knows it’s fighting a losing battle.
I think about dragging her in here. About pressing her against my desk, making her forget whatever the fuck she was looking at on her phone. About how easy it would be to wrap my hand around that delicate throat and watch those blue eyes go wide.
And that’s when I realize—both of them are watching me.
Timur doesn’t react. But Arseny? He fucking grins.
“Oh, this is bad,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “This is really fucking bad.”
“Get out,” I mutter.
“How bad is it, though?” He leans back like he’s savoring a glass of whiskey. “Like, is it bad enough that if I told her you’ve been sitting here hard as a rock just from watching her breathe, you’d actually kill me? Or just wound me?”
I throw a stapler at his head. He dodges it with a laugh.
Timur finally intervenes, clamping a heavy hand on Arseny’s shoulder. “Come on.”
“Hold on—”
Timur shoves him toward the door.
Arseny sighs dramatically as he’s dragged away. “I’m just saying, we’ve all seen men fall before, but this? This is some next-level simping, boss. This is—”
The door slams shut behind them.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly, trying to reel myself in.
But it doesn’t fucking work.
I rise from my chair and cross to the bar cart. I don’t pour a drink—not yet—but my fingers drift over the crystal decanters. The meeting with her is in fifteen minutes. Punctuality is non-negotiable.
She’s early.
I like that.
I catch the thought, scowl, and shove it right back where it came from. We’re not doing that.
We are not liking anything.
I return to my chair, stretching my legs under the desk as I glance toward the glass wall.
She shifts slightly, adjusting the way she crosses her legs, and— Suka blyad. That skirt.
Is this an interview for a private secretary position at a high-end escort service? Because it sure as hell isn’t the attire of a woman who came here to talk legal terms and business arrangements. It’s a distraction.
And it’s working.
Then she moves again—nothing dramatic, just a slight tilt of her head as she finally looks up, her gaze catching mine through the glass. Slow. Unhurried. Like she had all the time in the world before acknowledging me.
And then those lips.
She presses them together—red, fucking perfect, just enough gloss to catch the light, enough to make me wonder how soft they’d feel. There’s no challenge in her expression, no calculated play, no attempt at being coy. Just her. Looking at me. Pretty as sin.
Which annoys the hell out of me.
My grip tightens on the armrest, exhaling slowly through my nose as I drag my eyes back to hers.
She’s not supposed to look like this. I didn’t account for this. My plan was for a practical arrangement with a capable woman, not… this visceral pull that makes me grip the armrests of my chair a little tighter.
Damn it. That lipstick is a problem. A deliberate warning sign or a challenge, I can’t decide which. But it makes me think about how it would look smeared across her mouth after I—
I break eye contact first. I never break eye contact first.
Pressing the intercom, I instruct my assistant, “Send Ms. Marquez in.”
The second the door clicks open, I see the slight rise of her chin, the way she steps inside like she owns the room. Like she didn’t just spend the last two minutes seeing how far she could push my restraint.
I stand, motioning to the chair across from my desk. “Sit.”
She does, her back perfectly straight, hands resting lightly on the table in front of her.
“Before we begin,” she says, “I want to be absolutely clear on something.”
I lean back slightly, watching her. “And what’s that?”
“My siblings.”
Her tone is cool, but her fingers tighten slightly against the table, betraying the stakes for her. This isn’t just business for her. This is life or death.
I watch her, waiting.
Her fingers press against the smooth surface of my desk, her posture controlled—but not naturally. It’s the kind of stillness that comes from effort, from keeping something at bay.
Nerves.
She’s nervous.
Cute.
Not that I should find it fucking cute. Not that I should be noticing the way her hands grip each other slightly when I don’t respond immediately or the way her throat works as she swallows.
I tilt my head, deliberately slow. “Your siblings.”
She clears her throat. “Yes. They stay with me.”
I arch a brow. “You understand the contract states you’ll reside with me.”
She nods, hands tightening. “I understand that. But Julian is 17, and Lila is 14. They can’t be left on their own.”
“Your uncle and aunt seem perfectly willing to take them in,” I say, watching her carefully.
Her expression darkens. “That’s not an option.”
Ah. There it is. The fire that flares up in her when it comes to her family. The same fire that probably landed her in my office in the first place.
I lean back, studying her. “So you want to amend the contract?”
She swallows again, clearly expecting a fight. “Yes.”
“Fine.”
Silence.
Her lips part slightly, her brain struggling to catch up. “What?”
“Fine,” I repeat, grabbing my phone and dialing.
She blinks, visibly thrown. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” I press the phone to my ear, waiting for the line to pick up.
“You—you don’t even know what I’m asking for.”
I meet her wide-eyed stare, unimpressed. “You want them taken care of. It’s a non-issue.”
A click on the line.
“Mr. Belov,” a crisp voice answers, the speakerphone amplifying his even tone through the room.
“Ivan, amend the contract,” I say, my eyes still on Bella. “Ms. Marquez’s siblings will receive full tuition, housing, and living expenses at the best institutions until they’re of age to work. Julian, 17—prep school for his final year, then university. Lila, 14—boarding school, then the same.”
A brief pause, then: “Understood. I’ll have the revisions finalized within the hour.”
Bella sucks in a quiet breath, her eyes wide as saucepans.
I press the button, ending the call.
She’s still staring at the phone like it just rewired her entire understanding of me.
“That’s it?” she says, voice almost breathless.
I glance at her. “What, you were expecting a fight?”
She blinks. “I was expecting to be heard.”
My brows lift slightly. “You were.”
How interesting.
A flush creeps up her neck. “You didn’t ask what I wanted. You didn’t ask what Julian or Lila wanted. You just—decided.”
I hold her stare, unbothered. “They’ll be provided for. The best education. The best opportunities. If you have an issue with that, say so now.”
Her lips part, but no response comes immediately. I see the war in her eyes—the sheer disbelief that I made a decision that wasn’t mine to make. That I didn’t hesitate. Didn’t consult her.
Because why would I?
I don’t negotiate on things that don’t require negotiation. She wanted them safe? Done. She wanted them taken care of? Handled. Her opinion on how doesn’t matter.
She shifts in her chair, hands clenching against the desk. “You don’t get to just dictate their lives like that.”
I arch a brow. “You mean like you were about to?”
That stuns her into silence for a fraction of a second, her throat working as she swallows hard.
“I—”
“That’s what this is, isn’t it?” I press, my voice measured. “You wanted me to agree, but only on your terms. Only if I sat here and let you lay out the specifics, pretend this was an equal conversation.”
She exhales sharply, shaking her head, but there’s nothing to argue.
I lean forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk, voice calm but firm. “Julian Marquez is 17. He has one more year before he’s legally an adult, but until then, he and Lila will be set up at the best institutions. He’ll finish his final year at a top prep school. Lila Marquez will attend the best boarding school available, and when the time comes, they’ll have full tuition, housing, and living expenses for university. It’s done.”
Her lips part slightly, the shock evident.
I don’t wait for a thank you because I didn’t do this for gratitude. This was a transaction—a means to an end. I gave her what she wanted so she’d sign the fucking contract.
She presses her fingers into the desk, grounding herself.
“You could’ve at least asked,” she murmurs, quieter now.
I tilt my head. “Would it have changed anything?”
Her lips press together. No.
She knows it. I know it.
There’s no room for discussion in my world. No room for hesitation. I make decisions. I act. And she just got her first real taste of that.
“Anything else?” I ask, watching her carefully.
She stays quiet for a moment too long, then shakes her head. “No. That was my only request.”
I nod, like we’ve just settled something simple. Like she didn’t just get a preview of the kind of man she’s about to marry.
“Then there’s nothing stopping you from signing, is there?”
Her throat moves as she swallows.
I watch her hesitate. Just for a second. Just long enough to wonder if she’s going to say something else—ask for some other condition, try to assert some control over this.
But she doesn’t. She just nods.
Good girl.
I stand, buttoning my jacket with slow precision. “Then you should get ready.”
Her brows pull together slightly. “For what?”
I tilt my head. “For our wedding , wife .”