34. Chapter 34
Konstantin
Three Hours to Wedding – ThePenthouse
I adjust my cufflinks, examining the platinum against my crisp white shirt. Three hours. The clock on my bedroom wall ticks with military precision.
A soft knock at the door. Too gentle for Timur, too hesitant for Arseny.
“Enter,” I call, already knowing who it is.
The door creaks open, and Alya appears, already dressed in her flower girl outfit—a cream dress with a satin sash that matches her eyes. Her sandy blonde hair has been swept into an intricate braid, tiny crystals woven through it like stars. Natasha must have helped with her hair; the wedding planner is unexpectedly skilled with children. She looks both impossibly small and disturbingly grown-up.
She doesn’t smile. Instead, she stares at me with that penetrating gaze that makes grown men nervous.
“You haven’t tied your tie,” she announces, crossing the room with quick steps.
“I was getting to it.”
She climbs onto my bed without asking, standing on the mattress so we’re eye-level.
“I’ll do it.”
I raise an eyebrow but turn to face her. Her small fingers reach for the black silk, movements careful but confident. Where did she learn this? I don’t ask.
“Are you nervous?” she asks, concentrating on the knot.
“No.”
She looks up, skeptical. “Liar.”
“Alya.”
“What? Grandfather said lying is weakness, and weakness gets you killed.” She delivers this with perfect 8-year-old seriousness while perfecting my Windsor knot.
His last lesson to her before the coma claimed him six months ago.
The only person who ever saw his gentle side was Alya, his unexpected favorite.
I suppress a sigh. “That’s not something you should be repeating at the wedding.”
“I know. I’m not stupid.” She finishes the tie with a sharp tug. “There.”
I check it in the mirror. Perfect. Of course it is.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
"YouTube,” she answers, hopping down from the bed. “I practiced on Mishka.”
As if summoned, I notice the worn teddy bear propped against my pillows. His neck sports a miniature black tie that matches mine.
“I see.”
Alya retrieves her bear, hugging him to her chest.
“I made a list,” she announces.
“A list?”
“About her. Your wife. Isabella.” She pronounces the name carefully, testing it. “You should always make a list when you make big decisions. Ms. Peterson taught us that in decision-making class.”
I check my watch. “I don’t have time for—”
“It’s important.” Her voice holds that steel edge that reminds me too much of myself.
I sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Let’s see it.”
She pulls a folded paper from Mishka’s small backpack—the one she insists he needs for his “important bear things.” The paper is pink, covered in her neat handwriting, and decorated with glitter pen stars.
“Isabella Marquez Evaluation,” she reads solemnly.
“Evaluation?”
She ignores me, continuing: “Pros: She might make good cookies. Lev says she’s pretty. She has a job, so she’s not lazy. She might read books with the voices.” She pauses, glancing up. “Does she do the voices when she reads?”
“I don’t know.”
Alya frowns, making a small note. “We’ll find out.” She continues, “Cons: She might be allergic to Mishka.” She hugs the bear tighter. “She might not know ballet. She might not let me stay up for movie night. She might steal all your attention.”
She looks up, oddly vulnerable. “Will she?”
Something twists in my chest. “No.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Does she love you?” she interrupts, looking at me with sudden intensity.
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Does she love you?” Alya repeats, more insistent. “In all my storybooks, the prince and princess get married because they love each other. So, do you love Isabella? Does she love you?”
I stare at my daughter, unprepared for this particular line of questioning.
“It’s… complicated, ” I say finally.
She scrunches her nose. “That’s what adults say when they don’t want to answer.”
“Alya—”
“Last one,” she insists. “Most important question: Does she know you don’t smile a lot?”
I freeze, studying my daughter’s face. There’s nothing childish in her expression now.
“What do you mean?”
She sighs like I’m being deliberately obtuse.
"You’re always serious. Always…” she searches for the word, her small brow furrowed, “frowning.” She traces an invisible line between her own eyebrows, mimicking the crease that’s become permanent on my face. “What if she wants someone who laughs? What if she leaves because you never look happy?”
Something cold slides down my spine. I hadn’t realized Alya had noticed. Hadn’t realized she worried about it.
“I smile,” I say, the words sounding hollow even to me.
Alya gives me a look that’s far too knowing for her eight years.
“Not real ones. Not the kind that make your eyes crinkle like in the old pictures with Dedushka . Before he got sick.”
I don’t know what to say to that. She’s right. Of course she’s right.
She waves her hand vaguely. “With us. With you. With… everything.” She looks down at Mishka, adjusting his tie with careful fingers.
“She might run away if you’re too grumpy all the time.”
The observation hits harder than I expected. When did my daughter become so perceptive? And why does it feel like she’s looking straight through me, seeing things I’ve tried to bury?
“I’ll work on it,” I say quietly.
Alya looks up, surprised. Then her face breaks into a brilliant smile—the kind I apparently no longer know how to give.
“Really? You promise?”
I nod once, aware I’ve made a vow I’m not sure I can keep.
“I promise to try.”
“And… one more thing.”
Before she can say anything more, the door bursts open as Lev barrels in, already tugging at his collar. Despite his complaints, he looks striking in his suit, his hair slicked back to reveal eyes that match mine exactly.
“This thing is choking me,” he announces, flopping dramatically onto my bed. “Why can’t I wear a T-shirt? Who even cares?”
“I care,” I tell him firmly.
“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes but stops when he catches my expression. “Sorry… Papa. It looks nice. I guess .” He shrugs his shoulders.
Nikolai appears silently in the doorway, already perfectly dressed, not a hair out of place. Unlike his twin, he stands straight, hands clasped behind his back. The perfect soldier. Sometimes I worry about how much he watches, how much he understands.
“You look… presentable,” I tell him.
He nods once, no smile. “Thank you.” His eyes sweep the room, taking everything in. “ Ba-bush-ka is here,” he says, stumbling over the word. “She is asking for you.”
I suppress a wince at his mangled Russian. My sons speak the language of their heritage as if it’s foreign to them, another failure to add to my growing list.
“Where?” I ask, adjusting my watch—platinum, like the cufflinks. Everything matched, controlled, perfect.
Before I can respond, my phone rings. Arseny.
“Your mother is becoming impatient,” he says without preamble. “She’s asking why you’re avoiding her.”
“I’m not avoiding her.” The lie comes easily.
“Tell that to her,” Arseny replies, amusement evident in his voice. The only man who dares to find humor in my discomfort.
I end the call, surveying my children. “I need to speak with your grandmother. Go with Arseny when he comes up.”
“But—” Lev starts.
“No arguments.” I cut him off before he can build momentum. “Not today.”
Nikolai is already nodding, obedient as always. Lev sighs dramatically but doesn’t push further. Only Alya lingers, those eyes—so like mine—studying my face.
“Be nice to Babushka ,” she says softly. “She looks sad today.”
I don’t answer as I move toward the door. The walk to my reading room feels longer than it should. My mother—uninvited, unwelcome—represents a past I’ve tried to leave behind. The dutiful wife who stood beside my father through decades of violence and power.
She sits in my leather chair, spine straight despite her years. Platinum blonde hair—now more silver than gold—arranged perfectly, not a strand out of place. Yelena Belov looks like what she is: a woman who survived by making herself beautiful but unremarkable.
“Mama.” I don’t kiss her cheek or offer any other greeting.
I move to the crystal decanter on the side table, pouring myself two fingers of whiskey without offering her any.
“Konstantin.” Her voice carries the faint musical quality that once made men eager to please her… before my father’s shadow darkened everything around her. “Are you sure about marrying this—Isabella Marquel ?”
I nod once, unable to keep the tension from my jaw.
My fingers move to adjust my tie, a deliberate distraction from the conversation she is trying to have.
“You didn’t need to arrive this early.”
Her pale blue eyes—so different from my father’s steely gray ones that I inherited—study me with practiced neutrality.
“A mother helps prepare for her son’s wedding day. It’s tradition.”
“Nothing in this family has ever been about tradition.” I take a deliberate sip, watching her over the rim of my glass.
“An American girl.” She makes it sound like a disease. “With a Spanish name.”
“Yes, Isabella Marquez ,” I supply, watching her face tighten.
“No connections, no family name, no understanding of our ways.” Each word is precise, clipped. “Is this how you honor your father? By bringing foreign blood into the family while he lies helpless?”
I take another careful sip, and swallow.
“On Father’s terms.”
The silence between us stretches, brittle and sharp. My mother watches me with that unreadable expression she perfected long ago—detached, distant, a woman who mastered the art of survival by never giving away her thoughts.
“I see,” she says finally, setting down her teacup with an infuriatingly delicate clink. “So, this is truly happening.”
“Did you think I was joking?”
“No,” she answers, standing with the slow grace of someone who has never had to rush for anything. “I simply thought you’d come to your senses before it was too late.”
I down the rest of my drink and set the glass aside. “Too late for what?”
Her lips press together. “For a mistake you can’t undo.”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, already prepared to ignore whoever is foolish enough to interrupt. But the name on the screen stops me cold.
Timur.
My grip tightens around the device as I answer.“What is it?”
For a second, there’s nothing but silence. Then, his voice—low, measured, but carrying a weight that tightens something in my chest.
“She’s gone.”
I stare at the far wall, my pulse a slow, steady beat against my temple. “Explain.”
Timur exhales sharply. “The bride, Boss. Your bride. She’s gone.”
Something cold and lethal unfurls inside me. “Define gone. ”
“Vanished, boss"
I drag a hand over my jaw, the sting of frustration sharp beneath my palm.
Suka.
I pace to the window, staring out over the skyline. The clock on the wall ticks, taunting. Less than three hours until the wedding.
Timur exhales sharply again, a sound I don’t like.
“She was in the bridal suite, already in her dress. Hair done, makeup flawless. I had men posted at every exit. She said she needed the restroom, took off her veil, and walked toward the side corridor. A minute later… nothing. She never came back.”
A slow burn ignites in my chest. “And no one saw where she went?”
“She climbed out through the restroom window. Left her shoes behind—one jammed inside the toilet bowl.”
My eyes narrow. “Her shoes?”
“Yes, boss. Her shoes,” Timur says flatly, as if I’m the one missing the obvious. “She’s barefoot now. No cameras in that hallway. She slipped past our men. The street outside is a mess of alleys and side exits. She could be anywhere.”
My grip tightens around the phone. The weight of my mother’s stare presses into my back, but I ignore it. My focus narrows to one thing.
Isabella Marquez.
She’s outside. In that dress. Barefoot. Running through a maze of alleys like a thief in white.
My lips curl into something that might be a smirk, but it holds no humor.
She wants to play hide-and-seek?
Fine.
She’s about to find out exactly what happens when you run from me.