30. Chapter 30
30
Bella
N atasha stands there, all five feet of Russian determination, her blonde bob—expertly dyed to hide the gray that occasionally shows at her temples—not moving a single millimeter as she tilts her head to glare up at me. The fine lines around her eyes suggest she’s in her fifties, though her impeccable posture and commanding presence make her seem ageless, like she’s been organizing the lives of the Russian elite since before the fall of the Soviet Union.
“Hiding in closets is very childish,” she says, her accent making each word sound like a personal disappointment. The way she looks at me reminds me of a seasoned teacher who has seen generations of students try the same tired excuses.
“I wasn’t hiding,” I lie. “I was… admiring the craftsmanship of the closet hinges.”
Her eyes narrow. “Mr. Belov spares no expense. Even closet hinges are custom-made by Italian artisans.”
Of course they are.
“The Elie Saab,” she says, gesturing imperiously toward the bedroom where yet another white monstrosity awaits. “And Mr. Belov’s mother has sent specific instructions about the veil length.”
“Mr. Belov’s mother?” I repeat, trying to imagine the woman who raised a man like Konstantin. A faceless figure materializes in my mind—someone elegant but cold, imperious but refined. Someone who commands respect with a whisper rather than a shout.
“Yes, Mrs. Yelena Belov,” Natasha says, a reverence in her voice I haven’t heard before. “Most elegant woman. Very traditional.”
I try to process this new piece of information. Konstantin hasn’t mentioned his mother. He hasn’t mentioned anything about his family at all. Everything I know, I had to read between the lines of articles, careful not to lose myself in the silences. His world is still a mystery to me, a book written in a language I can’t read.
“What is she like?” I ask, genuine curiosity breaking through my anxiety.
Natasha doesn’t answer. Instead, she moves quickly, reaching for the zipper of my dress with practiced efficiency.
“We try next one,” she announces, already tugging the fabric down my arms.
I barely have time to react before she’s pulling the gown down my body, leaving me in nothing but my underwear. The chill of the air-conditioned room brushes against my skin, but the unease crawling up my spine has nothing to do with the temperature.
Natasha turns away briefly, sorting through the rack of gowns, muttering something about how I need something more sophisticated, less American princess.
Then, offhandedly—like she’s commenting on the weather—she says, “A future Pakhan’s wife must look perfect.”
My stomach tightens.
Future what?
I blink at her. “A future what?”
Natasha pauses, then glances at me like I just admitted I don’t know how to breathe.
“ Pakhan ,” she repeats. “You do not know this word?”
I shake my head, my pulse kicking up for reasons I don’t fully understand. “ No. Should I?”
She exhales as if she expected me to be more prepared for this. As if I should already know what I’m walking into.
“ Pakhan, ” she explains, folding a dress over her arm, “is leader. The top of Bratva. The one who controls everything.”
The word Bratva feels like a gunshot in my ears.
My breath catches. “Bratva? As in—?”
“As in Russian mafia, yes,” Natasha says plainly, not even lowering her voice.
I stare at her, heart pounding, the silk of the discarded dress pooling at my feet.
No. No, that can’t be right.
Konstantin Belov is a businessman. A billionaire. Ruthless, yes. Dangerous, absolutely. But Bratva?
I swallow hard. “He never told me that.”
Natasha tilts her head slightly, like she finds that amusing. “Men like Mr. Belov do not need to say such things. It is understood.”
The room suddenly feels smaller. The walls press in. The weight of this conversation settles heavily on my bare skin.
I’m marrying into the Bratva.
Before I can fully process that thought, a deep voice cuts through the air.
“You’ve spoken too much, Natasha.”
The sound of him stops my breath cold.
Natasha goes rigid.
I don’t turn immediately. I feel him before I see him—the shift in the air, the heavy presence that commands the room without trying.
Slowly, I pivot toward the doorway.
Konstantin Belov stands there, watching me.
His suit is perfectly tailored, his broad frame filling the space with effortless dominance. But it’s his eyes that pin me in place—they shift between silver and blue, unreadable, assessing.
I’m half-dressed, stripped down to nothing but lingerie, my vulnerability on full display. But it’s not modesty that makes my pulse hammer—it’s the way he looks at me like he owns me already.
“Mr. Belov,” Natasha says carefully, her head lowering slightly. “I was only explaining—”
“That was not your place,” he interrupts, voice smooth but laced with quiet authority.
She stiffens but doesn’t argue. Instead, she takes a respectful step back, folding her hands in front of her.
He shifts his gaze back to me, and the air in the room thickens.
“You look surprised,” he observes, his tone impossibly calm.
I force my chin up, my breath shallow. “You… never told me.”
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. Not a smile—something sharper. “Would it have changed your decision?”
I hate that I don’t have an answer to that.
His eyes flick down, scanning my nearly bare body before returning to my face. His expression gives nothing away, but there’s something dangerous in the way he looks at me.
Something possessive.
Something that tells me I’ve only just begun to understand what I’ve agreed to.
A heavy silence stretches between us, and then—
“Get dressed,” he orders, his voice even, unreadable. “We’ll talk over dinner.”
Oh, well, thank God I have a say in this.
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me standing there—half-dressed, pulse hammering, mind racing.
Dinner.
He wants to talk.
And I have no idea if that should make me feel better or worse.
Natasha breathes out as if she’s been holding her breath.
“Now,” she continues, back to business, “the dress. It has twenty-three buttons down back. Very sexy for wedding night, yes?”
And just like that, my momentary connection with Natasha evaporates as my cheeks flame red.
Because until this exact moment, I haven’t let myself think about the wedding night.
About Konstantin’s hands on those twenty-three buttons.
About what it really means to be a Belov wife.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, the weight of silk against my skin suddenly suffocating.
The moment I walk down that aisle, there’s no walking back.
No undoing this.
No escaping the world I just agreed to step into.
A world ruled by blood, power, and loyalty.
And I’m about to become part of it.
What the fuck have I done?
I need to stop the wedding… Somehow. Some way. Before it’s too late.