Yelena Belova Icons นิยาย & เรื่องราว

Elena said, showering something stronger than a business smile. “Oh, thank you.” “Can I take a selfie with you?” “Sure.” Elena then lowered her mask and took a selfie with her. “Y-You are…” Bella recognized her. Elena put the mask back on. “Shh! I don’t want to get attention. Right now, you're a celebrity.” “What are you doing here?” Bella’s tone and demeanor changed. She looked like she was talking to someone her equal. “I just came here to buy some gold because the prices are shooting up these days,” Elena said. “My boyfriend says that the price will come down soon, but I don’t think the gold rate will go down permanently. It will rise back up sooner or later, right?”

"Don't hate him too much, Evelyn. He was a child when they took him. He was raised to be a lie. I know he may have been cruel because he was thought by those stupid Americans to be so. Give him a chance to find out who Yamelyan and maybe you can find out who the woman behind the Chairperson is, too." I wrapped the towel around me, feeling the coarse fabric against my skin. "I’m not sure I want to know her. She’s currently hiding in a slum in Murmansk." "She’s currently the only woman who can make a Vor’s son look like a kicked dog," Lenochka winked. "That’s a power worth keeping." We walked back to the apartment, our shoulders brushing, the tension between us replaced by a fragile, humid bon

Bella looked at Elena. “She’s lying,” Bella said. “Elena, why are you doing this to me?” Zara turned and faced her fully and for just a moment, something in her eyes was not Elena at all. Something older and colder and far more certain looked out from behind Elena’s composed face. “Because,” she said quietly, “I don’t like people who hurt others and feel nothing about it. And I make it my business to ensure they are dealt with accordingly.” She reached into her bag and produced her phone. “And if no one believes me”

Only her chest expanded slightly deeper, compensating for the oxygen that had suddenly grown thin. Behind his mother, Victor didn’t shift his gaze even a fraction. “Pardon?” Elena’s voice emerged in a tone of confusion—constructed with extraordinary precision. Svetlana took one step forward. Her hands—veined, adorned with inherited rings, but still formidable—rose and touched Elena’s cheek with care. “The most elegant woman I’ve ever encountered, and those eyes—” her voice dropped, catching somewhere in her throat, “—no one who has ever seen them has truly been able to forget them.”

Looks like Cupid’s been busy. I eyeYelena over the rim of my wine glass. She’s got that look, the one that screams “I’m hiding something juicy.” Time to poke the bear. “Alright, spill it,” I say, setting down my glass with a dramatic clink. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” She hesitates, chewing her lip. “I don’t want to hurt Viktor, Ana.” Here it comes. “He’s just so hot!” she blurts out, and I almost choke on my drink. When I collect myself, I nod, smirking. I’ve never looked at Viktor that way, but it’s hard to argue with Yelena’s assessment.

Superstition clung to the walls like dust. Elena stood in front of her dressing-room mirror, alone. The costume was little more than gold body paint and chains that draped across her breasts and hips, leaving back, sides, and most of her ass bare. Her skin shimmered under the lights, every muscle carved sharp from weeks of starvation and obsession. She looked like a blade dipped in honey. Valeria knocked once and entered without waiting. She wore the Slave costume again: black straps, collar, nothing else. The leather had been adjusted since the gala; now it framed her completely naked cunt, lips already slightly swollen, as if her body knew what was coming.

"So, who was in my penthouse, Marcus?" "Layla has a twin," Marcus said, swiping the screen to show a grainy DMV photo. "Elena Vance. She’s a freelance graphic designer. No criminal record, no debt to Silas Vane, and almost zero digital footprint. She doesn't attend galas. She doesn't do 'lifestyles of the rich and famous.' She lives in a studio apartment in the East Side." Julian leaned over the desk, his eyes fixated on the photo. It was a sterile, poorly lit shot, but the eyes were unmistakable. They were the same wide, expressive eyes that had looked at him with such raw honesty through the silver filigree.

“Yes? Not anymore but I was born in the Taro family. Why?” Yelena and Bolt looked at him strangely, and Zen felt self-conscious. Did he say something wrong? The panic in him only grew when Yelena dragged Bolt away to talk in Russian. Zen didn’t understand a word and only wished that Sasha was here to translate. The discussion ended briefly, and Yelena announced that they would tell him at dinner only if he accepted one of their requests. “R-request?” Bolt grinned. “Don’t reject Yelena’s kindness. She might be the youngest invigilator at only fourteen, but her skills are unrivalled. Not even the Death Princess can surpass her in an actual battle.”

Isabella flinched. "Why?" "Because someone should remember them. Someone should say their names out loud. Someone should make sure they're not forgotten." She was silent for a long moment. Then she began to speak. --- Oksana. Fifteen. From Odessa. She wanted to be a dancer. Natasha. Seventeen. From Minsk. She had a younger brother she never stopped talking about. Yelena. Fourteen. From Kyiv. She looked just like me. Irina. Sixteen. From Moscow. She fought the hardest. She screamed the loudest. She was the one who made my mother stop.

“Or because I want to see how you handle information about the woman you replaced. Take your pick.” Either answer meant he was still testing me. I opened the folder anyway. Elena Voss stared back at me from a photograph clipped to the first page, and something ugly twisted in my chest before I could stop it. She was beautiful in a way that looked effortless—soft blonde waves, wide doe eyes, a composure that seemed bred into her rather than practiced. Everything about her looked like the kind of woman Romanov’s world was built for. Elegant. Controlled. Someone who belonged in rooms like his.