Chapter 10
Izzy
“So…” Tone stretched the word out like she had all the time in the world, “tell me everything there is to know about Izzy.”
She was perched in a wing chair just outside the walk-in wardrobe, legs tucked beneath her, watching me with the kind of casual interest that felt anything but accidental.
The wardrobe itself was obscene—rows of perfectly spaced suits on one side, shelves of shoes that looked more like art installations than footwear.
I was half convinced the clothes had never been worn.
Or if they had, it had been with purpose.
“There’s not much to tell, really,” I called back from inside as I zipped up a pair of jeans. They fit like they’d been tailored for me, which made my stomach do a small, uneasy flip. “I work as a barista by day and go to art school by night. Where I can, I take freelance art jobs.”
Tone hummed thoughtfully. The sound carried weight.
I stepped out, smoothing my hands down the peasant-style top she’d paired with the jeans—soft fabric, delicate embroidery at the neckline. Comfortable, but elegant in a way my usual clothes weren’t.
Her eyes widened. Then she squealed.
“Oh my god,” she breathed. “You look stunning.”
I glanced down at myself, then reached for the tag still tucked under my arm. When I saw the number, my stomach lurched. I lifted it between my fingers and shook my head. “I can’t believe you spent this much money on one top.”
“It’s nothing.” She waved my concerns off immediately. “I’m just relieved I got the sizing right.”
“This is more clothing than I’ll need in a lifetime,” I said honestly.
I hesitated, then looked at her properly—really looked at her. She was relaxed, but observant. Warm, but sharp. Someone who noticed things even when she pretended not to.
“Speaking of which, do you have any idea how long I’ll be here?”
Something flickered across her face. Not guilt. Not concern for me, exactly. Displeasure—but aimed elsewhere.
“I don’t even know why you’re here,” she confirmed. “All I know is Raze called me and told me to organize clothes and have them couriered over.” She scoffed softly. “Courier them over? Please. When have I ever followed instructions?”
That earned a reluctant smile from me.
“I wanted to see what was going on with my own two eyes,” she continued. “And I’m very glad I did.”
Her expression softened, just a touch.
My question slipped out before I could stop it.
“Will he hurt me?”
The room went suddenly still. Tone’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Darling, he won’t hurt you if you’re innocent.”
I swallowed. Let that settle.
Then she added, almost lazily, “Are you?”
“Innocent?” I repeated, incredulous. “Of what?” I threw my hands up, pacing a short line like a caged animal with good posture. “Do I look like a fucking spy?”
Tone arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “The spy who wore Prada,” she mused. “It has a certain ring to it.”
I groaned and collapsed dramatically into a nearby chair, stretching out with all the grace of a sulking child. “Fantastic. I get kidnapped and interrogated by a woman with better eyebrows than me.”
She laughed, the sound easy and genuine, and stood, extending a hand. “Come on. Let’s go have coffee. You can tell me all about how you met my brother.”
In the kitchen, Tone moved like she belonged there. Because obviously, she did. Which was more than I could say for myself.
“When you suggested coffee, I thought you meant out. Not in your brother’s heavily guarded kitchen.”
She grinned. “Baby steps.”
She filled the kettle and pulled mugs from a cabinet like she’d lived in the house her entire life—which, to be fair, she probably had at some point. There was no hesitation, no checking labels. She knew where everything was.
“Milk? Sugar?” she asked, already halfway to the fridge.
I eyed the gleaming monstrosity of a coffee machine built into the counter. It looked like it could launch a satellite. “Why aren’t you using the coffee machine?” I asked, suspicion in my voice.
Tone glanced at it, then back at me. “Because none of us ever mastered it,” she confessed meekly.
I blinked. “None of you?”
“Raze tried once,” she revealed. “It screamed. He unplugged it. We’ve all agreed it’s haunted.”
I stared at the machine again. Honestly? I believed her.
“Move over.” I stepped up to the machine. “I’m the barista in this room. I’ll make it.”
She snorted, hands lifting in surrender. “I like you.”
I took my time. There was something grounding about the ritual—measuring, tamping, listening to the familiar hiss and pressure. Muscle memory kicked in, and for a moment, I wasn’t a guest or a prisoner or a question mark. I was just doing a job I knew how to do.
I slid a mug toward her when I was done. She leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely, watching me with open curiosity now. Not invasive. Just… attentive. Like she was piecing something together and enjoying the process.
I didn’t miss the way her gaze flicked to my clothes, then to my hands, then back to my face. Like she was cataloguing me for later.
“So, tell me about art school.”
I nodded. “Yes. Well, apparently I’m committed to living the life of a poor person. Contrary to popular belief, art does not, in fact, pay the rent.”
Her mouth twitched. “Ah. A romantic.”
“Deeply delusional,” I agreed. “With student debt.”
She laughed, took a sip of her coffee, and paused. “Okay.” She sounded impressed. “That’s actually good.”
“Thank you. I trained for years to achieve that level of validation.”
“So you’re a barista by necessity.”
“By survival,” I corrected.
She nodded solemnly. “Respect.”
We stood there for a moment, sipping coffee in a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a magazine I couldn’t afford. The normalcy of it all felt surreal—two women chatting over caffeine, like this wasn’t a house built for secrets and power and violence.
“You don’t strike me as reckless,” Tone said suddenly.
I glanced at her. “I fell for the wrong man and ended up here.”
She smiled knowingly. “Okay. You don’t strike me as intentionally reckless.”
“Much better.”
She studied me again, more carefully now. “You don’t seem afraid.”
“I am,” I confessed. “I just don’t find it productive to advertise.”
That earned a low hum of approval.
“I think,” she said thoughtfully, “you might be the most interesting thing that’s happened to my brother in a very long time.”
My stomach dipped. “That feels… ominous.”
“It should.”
I sighed into my mug. “Fantastic.”
She laughed again, warm and unapologetic, and something inside me eased—just a little. Not because I trusted her completely. Not because I trusted him.
She sipped her coffee. “Raze doesn’t let people stay here without reason.”
“I gathered.”
“And he doesn’t keep people close unless he thinks it’s necessary.”
That sent a chill through me. I wrapped my hands around the mug, grounding myself.
“I don’t know what he thinks I am. But I’m not a threat to him.”
Tone’s gaze softened again. “No,” she agreed. “You’re probably not.”