32. Chapter 32
32
Konstantin
S he’s going to regret it.
The slap lingers. Not on my skin—I barely felt it—but in the way it happened at all.
No one touches me like that. No one.
And yet, she did.
That cobalt-blue glare, still burning in my head like a brand, defiant even as her hand stung from striking me.
I flex my jaw as I stare out the car window, city lights smearing across the glass. The slap itself wasn’t the problem. It’s what came after—that split second where I wanted to crush her against me instead of breaking her hand. That moment where her insolence made me want her more, not less.
That’s concerning.
I run my tongue over my lower lip. Her taste is still there—warm, addictive. Like she’s been burned into me.
Pizdet .
I didn’t plan to kiss her in that restaurant.
I don’t act on impulse—survival is strategy.
But she stood there, throwing demands like they meant something, like I hadn’t already decided.
I stepped in, my fingers grazing her chin.
She froze, breath catching, lips parting for a fleeting second as mine touched hers.
Then she swung.
Her palm stung my cheek—a reckless move that no one survives.
Her eyes flared, blue sharpening to a challenge.
I should have broken her for it. Instead, I felt heat pulse through my blood.
I roll my neck, tension coiling tight.
The SUV moves smoothly through the streets.
“So…” Arseny stretches the word out.
I flick my eyes to the right, where he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other flicking a cigarette case open and shut. He doesn’t light one—just fidgets, like he’s chewing over something.
“Didn’t see that one coming.”
I don’t respond.
“Honestly, I’m impressed,” he continues, watching me through the rearview mirror. “Not by her—by you. Never thought I’d see the day someone put their hands on you and lived to tell about it.”
I cut him a look. “Do you want to test your luck?”
He grins, unfazed. “I’m just saying, boss—this is new. This is not the usual you.”
He’s right. That’s the problem.
I should have seen it coming—the resistance, the fire. I did see it coming . I just let her get away with it.
Because I fucking liked it.
I exhale sharply. “How’s the guest list?”
Arseny flicks his cigarette lighter, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp features.
“Tight. No surprises. No enemies.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly.“Well. Except your bride, obviously.”
I huff out a laugh. The first one since she walked out of that restaurant.
“And my stepmother?”
“Didn’t make the cut.”
“Filipp?”
Arseny snorts. “Boss, come on. That’s insulting. You know I’m top-notch when it comes to keeping the wrong kind of people out of your wedding.” He taps the steering wheel. “Filipp’s been trying to undermine you for years. If he were so much as sniffing around the venue, I’d know before he even stepped onto the sidewalk.”
I nod. “Good. The elders?”
Arseny exhales. “Front row seats. Wouldn’t miss it. They backed your father, they’ll back you. They want to see the next Pakhan with his ‘respectable’ wife.”
Because that’s what this is. A show. A spectacle. A performance of power.
Let them watch.
Let them all see that Konstantin Belov takes what he wants.
“And the kids?” Arseny asks, giving me a quick side-eye. The smirk is back.
I glance at him, waiting.
“The little royals accepting their new queen?”
I huff out a laugh. “Lev doesn’t care.”
Arseny snorts. “Figures.”
Lev, at 12, is all fire and impulse. When I told him about the wedding, he crossed his arms and asked, “Is she nice? Or is she going to be one of those evil stepmothers like in the movies?”
Before I could answer, he followed up with, “Wait—does this mean she can make us do homework?”
And when I said no, he just shrugged and muttered, “Cool, whatever. Can I still go to soccer practice?”
“But Nikolai…” I let the words linger, watching the buildings blur past. He’s the opposite of Lev.
Where Lev throws his emotions out into the world, Nikolai buries his. He keeps his concerns locked deep inside, where no one can touch them.
His reaction was simple. “So this is just happening whether we like it or not?”
A statement. Not a question.
“He didn’t argue. He didn’t ask why,” I say.
He just accepted it—because that’s who he is. He sees the world for what it is. Brutal. Unfair. Unforgiving.
Arseny nods, understanding. “The quiet one.”
“He keeps his concerns deep inside. Never shows his emotions.”
“Like someone else I know,” Arseny mutters.
I ignore him.
Arseny turns the SUV toward one of my penthouses that’s closer to the church.
My church. The one my grandfather built, the one my father expanded, the one where three generations of Belov men have been married. Where tomorrow, Isabella Marquez will walk down the aisle and become mine before God and the Bratva.
Arseny shifts, grinning. “And the little boss?”
I exhale. “Alya is… concerned.”
His grin widens. “Of course she is.”
My little general.
My daughter, 8 going on unshakeable. She’s got my fight and nothing from the woman who left. When I told her about the wedding, she didn’t cry or pout like I expected. Instead, she looked me dead in the eye and asked, “Does she like animals?”
The question had caught me off guard. “I don’t know.”
Alya’s eyes had narrowed, suspicious. “What if she doesn’t like Mishka?” Mishka , her stuffed bear that goes everywhere with her that she insists is real.
“Then she’ll have to learn to,” I’d said simply.
“Will she read me stories? With the voices?” Her voice had gotten quieter then, more vulnerable.
“I’m sure she can learn to,” I’d answered, not knowing if it was true.
Alya had considered this, her small face serious. “Will she love us?”
That question had hit me harder than I expected. Direct. Without pretense. For a moment, I couldn’t find an answer.
“She’ll take care of you,” I’d finally said.
“For how long?”
“For as long as necessary.”
I hadn’t told the children the marriage was temporary. A one-year arrangement to satisfy my father’s will. They didn’t need to know that. I needed them to respect her, not dismiss her as someone passing through.
But I also couldn’t have them getting attached. Couldn’t have them seeing her as more than what she was—a necessary addition to our lives, not a permanent one.
“You should have seen Alya’s face when I told her,” I say, staring out at the city lights as we approach the penthouse. “She asked if Isabella knows ballet.”
“Does she?” Arseny asks, curious.
“How the fuck would I know?”
“Jesus, boss.” He shakes his head. “You’re marrying the woman tomorrow.”
“It’s a business arrangement.”
“Tell that to your daughter.” He turns the car onto the private road leading to the penthouse complex. “And to the woman you just let slap you in public without consequences.”
I ignore the dig. “The cathedral will be ready by noon?”
“Everything’s set. Ceremony at two, reception at four.” He smirks. “If your bride shows up, that is.”
“She’ll be there.”
“You sure about that? Because I’ve got Dmitri and Viktor watching her, and according to them, she’s been on the phone with someone since she got home.” He raises his eyebrows. “Sounded like she was trying to figure out how to get out of this.”
I feel a spike of irritation. Not at Isabella. At the idea that she thinks she has a choice.
“She can plan all she wants,” I say, my voice cool and even. “She signed the contract. She takes my name tomorrow, or she loses everything.”
Arseny nods, pulling up to the secured entrance of the penthouse. “And if she tries to run?”
“She won’t get far.”
The security gate opens for the SUV, recognizing the vehicle. Beyond it, my penthouse rises, sleek and modern, lights already on. Someone’s waiting inside—probably Timur with final security details for tomorrow.
“Father Mikhail’s been briefed?” I ask as we pull into the underground garage.
“Yes. Traditional ceremony, slightly abbreviated. He knows the drill.”
I nod, satisfied. Everything in place. Everything as it should be.
Except for the lingering burn of her palm against my skin. The echoing crack of the slap. The shock and defiance in those cobalt eyes.
We park, and I make a decision.
“I want her watched tonight. Not just the apartment—I want to know if she makes any calls, any attempts to contact anyone. If she tries to leave, I want to know immediately.”
Arseny nods, suddenly all business. “Consider it done.”
We exit the car, footsteps echoing in the concrete garage. I’m already mentally reviewing tomorrow’s schedule, already picturing Isabella at the altar, already—
“You know what I think?” Arseny says as he falls into step beside me.
“I don’t recall asking.”
He grins, unbothered. “I think you like it.”
I level him with a stare that would make a smarter man shut his mouth.
“I think,” he continues, his grin widening, “that after years of women falling at your feet, terrified to even breathe wrong around you, along comes this one who spits fire and slaps you in public, and instead of putting her in her place, you’re sitting here thinking about how good she’s going to look wearing your ring.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Because the worst part is, he’s fucking right.
I get out of the car without another word, slamming the door with more force than necessary. Through the window, I see Arseny laughing to himself, shaking his head like he’s just witnessed something historic.
And maybe he has.
Because tomorrow, Isabella Marquez becomes mine. To have. To hold.
To punish.
And I’ve never been a patient man.