Yelena Belova Icons Novels & Stories

They had never seen wealth like this. Elena Petrova, 22, from Russia — tall, pale-skinned with icy blue eyes and full breasts. Aisha Rahman, 23, from Malaysia — petite but curvaceous with golden-brown skin and long black hair. Isabella Costa, 24, from Brazil — athletic with sun-kissed skin, dangerous curves, and a wild spirit. The party started civilized — champagne, caviar, laughter. But as the night deepened, Victor’s true intentions emerged.

Elena fired back at him. Bonnie walked up to them as she took the potrate from them and stared at what was making them yell at each other. "Ok, why does this kid looks like me? And why the hell does it has my birth date on it?" She asked staring at the potrate. "Because she is you" Alex corrected. "Ok, this is weird. Who drew this?' She further interrogated. "It's Sarah Bellos" Elena told her. "And who the hell is Sarah Bellos?" She asked as they got tired of her interrogations.

Or… someone who looked exactly like me. I stood on a massive stage, fists clenched, a crowd roaring behind me. My face was plastered on banners, on walls, on drone projections in the sky. And the caption beneath it? **“Elena Vale—the Voice of the Revolution.”** -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “No,” I whispered. “That’s not real.” Victor didn’t move. “It’s real,” he said. “The Architect has launched the next phase. They’re using your image to inspire a global uprising.” My knees buckled slightly. Damien caught me before I fell.

I asked Elena pulled out her phone before tossing it onto the nearby table. My chest tightened immediately because there were photos of me leaving Viktir’s penthouse day ago, me beside him during the gala and me being carried unconsciously from the warehouse attack. The headlines were the most disturbing of them all making the situation even worser. Mysterious Woman Linked To Viktor Sokolov Business Heiress Secretly Living With Russian Billionaire Daniel Orlov’s Ex-Fiancée Involved With His Uncle

Alexei suggested fervently, and the two immediately obliged. Mikhail lifted Yelena using his hands effortlessly and I heard the clicking of the camera when the wind blew as planned. Yelena's dress and her soft caramel hair were gently blown by the wind and she looked beautiful in the air while wearing that contagious smile. Based on their position, I thought that it was a very remarkable pose, but it seemed like Alexei wasn’t satisfied when he suggested Mikhail lift Yelena with one hand instead. The enthusiastic two never bothered to complain and followed Alexei's suggestion. And then I heard Mikhail and Yelena scream in excitement when they saw the outcome of their pose.

Straight to the center. Straight to Volkov. My blood turned to ice. She stopped ten feet from him. Looked at Anya first. Eyes softened for a second. Then to Volkov. “I’m here,” she said. Voice steady. Loud enough to carry. Volkov smiled. Slow. Cruel. “Elena Kovaleva. The true heir. Come to save the spare.” “Let her go.” He laughed once. Sharp. “You think it works like that? You walk in. I let her walk out. Then what? You think I let either of you live?”

I half expect to see horse-drawn carriages outside, and women are parading in hats. Elena isn't wearing a hat. Instead, her short blonde hair is off in her face with a headband and clad in black spandex shorts, a white sports bra, and a light blue T-shirt with a looping neckline. A gym membership card dangles from a bulky set of keys that must help burn calories simply by being lugged around. "Excuse me, Miss Koshka. Do you have a moment?" "Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying." "It's about your ex-husband Igor Akinfeev."

Offering a military salute by crossing their hands over their chest they stood facing her. Jelena Savage was not as old as one would expect from the leader of an entire race. She was only 17, even younger than Axel by a whole two years! Her hair was braided just above both her ears, her eyes watched coldly like a hawk and inside them, one could sense ruthlessness emanating from her whole being. Her voice was a bat match for her personality, she sounded nothing like who she was. This was a strong woman, who ruled with fear and an iron fist.

Elena grinned, vicious and beautiful. “Make sure Roman doesn’t find out.” .Jace stared. “…He’s absolutely going to find out.” “Not today,” Elena said. And then she spotted something ahead ,something expensive and unnecessary. Her mood brightened instantly. “Oh look,” she said. “Bulgari.” Jace groaned into both hands. “Elena, I swear to God, every time you get threatened you get more chaotic...” “Exactly,” she said. Swipe. Approved. Lysandra Vauxhaul was unraveling.

Mikhail Volkov had already made it clear that he wanted one thing, and he would stop at nothing to get it, Revenge. Elena took a step back, and brushing her palm against the sensitive bites on her neck, she swallowed hard, "Oh yeah? Why don't you take my advice and get a test on your hands, because that will be the last time you put them on me again." Without waiting for another word, she turned around and matched upstairs, shame and rage making a merry company in her pounding heart. *** "Ma'am, Mr. Volkov instructed that I guide you through this yoga class."