Beautiful Lies (Lobanov Bratva #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Isla

The large office my mother and I sit in has the muted lack-of-warmth colors and vibe I've always associated with William Goode, my father's best friend, and trustee.

Everything in here is gray—the furniture, the walls, and even the view of the New York skyline with its overcast sky and swollen rain clouds pressing against the windows like angry bruises.

The mood feels more fitting than usual. Another reminder of my father's death.

I still can't believe he's gone. Killed in a head-on collision with a drunk driver three months ago. We buried him the same week as my twenty-fifth birthday.

Instead of celebrating—not that there was much to celebrate—we were saying goodbye.

I've hardly wanted to face the world since then, so saying I don't want to be here is an understatement.

Being summoned for this impromptu meeting today caught me off guard. Neither Mom nor I have any idea what it's about. The last meeting we're supposed to attend is the will reading in two weeks, once the lawyers finish untangling assets from debts.

When William called this morning, he told us to be here by ten and explained he couldn't discuss the matter over the phone. At least he said to try not to worry.

Sorry, William, but if you really didn't want us to worry, you should have chosen better words.

And I was worried from the moment he said hello.

I'm aware we still have legal matters to handle. It's been one endless cycle since the accident. I hadn't even changed out of my funeral dress before the lawyers started calling and Dad's debts began clawing their way to the surface. All ugly reminders that grief doesn't pause the world.

It doesn't help that I've always associated William with bad news.

He was the one who called me at summer camp when I was twelve, telling me our house had burned down. He was the one who called days before my high school graduation to tell me Mom had suffered a heart attack. He was the one who called when Dad died.

Each time, my parents needed someone to shoulder the burden of being the bearer of bad news. William was that person. To them, he was the good friend. The guy who was always there, and even stood by us when Dad lost everything years ago. To me, he wasn't much different from the Grim Reaper.

Who knows what fresh hell today will bring?

Mom pulls in a shaky breath and stares through the window, desolation sagging her shoulders. Her bloodshot eyes brim with unshed tears, and her pale skin looks almost translucent against her white-blonde hair.

We've always looked alike—same colorless hair, same hazel eyes and porcelain skin, same petite frame. Now, grief has made us mirror images in our mourning. Both of us hollow. Both of us haunted.

I've done my best to take care of her, even going part-time at the theatre so I can help out at, Monroes, our family restaurant. But other than being around her, I know it's not enough. Nothing can ever be enough when you lose someone you love.

Her hands tremble in her lap, her fingers twisted so tightly her knuckles have turned bone white. My stomach clenches. That tremor isn't just grief. I know the difference. This is her body failing her again.

Her heart condition makes her fragile on the best of days.

I shudder to think what three months of stress and grief have done to her.

The sleepless nights, the funeral arrangements, the endless parade of people offering condolences she didn’t have the strength to face.

But nothing compares to losing Dad, her soul mate.

It's all been far too much.

"Mom?" I reach over and cover her hands with mine. Her skin feels paper thin and cold. "Are you okay?"

She tries to smile, but it's brittle around the edges. "I'm fine, sweetheart. Just nervous about this meeting."

I squeeze her hands gently. "William said not to worry. Maybe it's nothing too serious." The words taste bitter even as I say them, making me sound delusional. We both know William wouldn't have asked us to come unless it was important. And important in our world usually means catastrophic.

Mom's gaze drifts back to the window, unfocused. "I wish he could have given us a hint. Something. Anything."

"I know."

"Maybe it's about the house." She drags in a slow breath.

We'd been speculating the entire car ride here, running through endless possibilities. Knowing my father, this meeting could be about anything—more unpaid debts, hidden assets, some clause in the will that needed immediate attention. Any fucking thing.

I loved my father. God, I loved him.

But I wish he’d been half as careful with our money as he was with everyone else’s.

He was a private equity investor. The brilliant and relentless John Monroe. A man who built fortunes for strangers… and somehow left his own family drowning in debt.

"Maybe it's about the life insurance..." Mom's voice trails off.

"William would've mentioned that over the phone. We've discussed it at length already." And there was nothing more to say. Dad had decreased his insurance package, so we barely had enough money to bury him and a few thousand left for Mom to survive on.

"Maybe there's something that will affect the rest of the payout." Mom holds her breath, and I can see how terrified she is. The money she's referring to is barely a cushion, but with her medical treatment, we need every cent.

"Mom, let's just wait and see what he says." I squeeze her hands again, trying to anchor us both. "There's no point in torturing ourselves with guesses."

She looks at me then, really looks at me, and the exhaustion tinged with desperation in her eyes makes my chest ache. "I just don't have the strength for more bad news, Isla. I don't."

Before I can answer, the heavy mahogany door swings open.

William strides in, thick set and florid, his pin-striped suit straining across his middle. Thinning gray hair plasters to his scalp, and his eyes flicker with the same unease clinging to the air.

And he isn't alone.

My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and throat when my eyes lock on the man walking in behind him. He's tall—impossibly tall, like almost seven feet—and his shoulders look engineered to bear the weight of empires.

His charcoal Kiton suit fits him like a second skin with hand-stitched perfection that whispers old money and quiet ruthlessness. Dark hair, cut short at the sides, sweeps back from a face that could've been carved from marble by someone who understood that beauty was supposed to hurt a little.

He's the kind of man sculpted to make you look twice and regret it instantly.

But it's his eyes that make my pulse stutter. Cold. Calculating. Cruel. The color of a winter storm rolling in off the Atlantic. And they're fixed directly on me.

Against his arctic coldness, heat twists low in my stomach before I can stop it. Then reality slams into me as recognition hits.

I know who this guy is. I’ve seen him in the papers and on TV.

He’s Knox Vale, heir to Vale Global’s multi–billion-dollar investment empire.

The same man the press loves to call a monster, yet GQ listed him as one of New York’s most eligible bachelors.

Good for him. But what the hell is he doing here?

My father worked for the Vales many years ago as their director of Portfolio Management. I'd never met any of them, but judging from what I've read about Knox, and that soulless look in his bright blue eyes, I doubt he's here to offer condolences.

Mom and I exchange shocked glances before returning our gazes to the two men as William closes the door.

"What is going on?" I ask, cutting to the chase.

"Isla, Greta." William acknowledges us in that good-natured way of his, but the cloudiness in his eyes tells me he's on edge. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

I glance back at Knox briefly, because those stormy eyes are still watching me.

"I'm sure you both know Mr. Knox Vale," William continues, gesturing to Knox. "He was a business associate of your father's when he worked at Vale Global."

"I remember." Mom's voice is thin and strained.

Knox's attention shifts to her, and something flickers across his face. Not quite sympathy. More like recognition of a weakness he could exploit if he chose to.

"Mrs. Monroe." His deep voice is rough and edged with cold authority.

The kind of voice that gives orders and expects obedience.

"I'm sorry for your loss." The words sound wrong in his mouth, like he's speaking a foreign language, except we understand him perfectly, along with his complete absence of compassion.

"Please, have a seat, Mr. Vale." William waves toward the leather chairs opposite Mom and me.

While William settles into the winged chair behind his desk, Knox takes the one directly across from me.

He looks at me again. Just a glance, but for that split second, it feels like he's catalogued every detail about me.

Ice travels down my spine, and my instincts scream at me to look away. So, I do.

William clears his throat, the sound loud in this cavernous office. "I'm afraid this meeting concerns unfinished business between your father and Vale Global."

My pulse skips. Unfinished business? The phrase sits like a stone in my stomach. "What sort of business?"

"Serious matters regarding financial misconduct." His gaze flickers to Knox. "Along with an outstanding debt to Mr. Vale."

"What?" I gasp, air freezing in my lungs.

"I'm afraid the matter is rather grave."

A tremor ripples through me. God, I was right.

Shit. I was right. This is more bad news.

Mom's breath hitches. "I don't understand. My husband stopped working with Vale Global eight years ago."

William nods slowly, like he expected that reaction. "He did. But it doesn't matter."

Knox leans back, resting an elbow on the arm of his chair. "Let's not dance around, William." His voice cuts through the air, low and clipped, laced with impatience. I'm almost glad he's done with the fake condolences and showing his true self now. "My time is valuable. Get to the point."