Chapter 2 #2
Harrison hovers near the bar cart. Matthew's stepson from his first marriage, technically not blood, but is somehow always around when money's being discussed.
Mid-thirties, too-white teeth, the kind of tan that comes from boats and bad intentions.
He keeps glancing at me like he's already spending whatever I'm about to lose.
The family lawyer, Bernard Goldman, perches on the edge of a seat with his leather portfolio, looking older than the Constitution.
And Sergei is stationed by the door, like a gargoyle someone forgot to mount on a cathedral.
Mother tried to have him removed.
He declined to leave.
She tried again.
He smiled.
That ended the discussion.
"I'll be brief," Bernard says, adjusting wire-rimmed glasses that look like they survived the Depression. "Richard's estate is substantial. Properties, trust funds, various holdings. Meticulously organized, as was his way."
Meticulous to the point of pathology. I hear Dad's voice in my head and have to look away, blinking fast.
"However, there is one unusual stipulation regarding the controlling shares of Davenport Holdings." Bernard clears his throat. The sound is too loud in the too-quiet room. "Isabelle Davenport will inherit full control of her father's shares, 65 percent of the company, on one condition."
Every eye in the room turns to me.
Julie stops dabbing. Harrison freezes with his drink halfway to his mouth. Even Great-Aunt Cordelia leans forward an inch.
I feel Sergei's gaze like a brand on the back of my neck.
"She must be legally married before her thirtieth birthday."
The words land like a bomb in a library.
"What?" My voice comes out strangled.
"Three months from today," Bernard continues like he didn't just detonate my entire life. "Should she fail to meet this requirement, the shares will be redistributed according to a secondary provision, granting controlling interest to—"
"That's insane." I'm on my feet, heart slamming against my ribs. "My father would never do this. He hated arranged marriages, hated treating people like property—"
"Your father was pragmatic." Mother's voice cuts through my panic, cool and sharp as a scalpel. "He added the clause six months ago. To protect you."
"Protect me?" I round on her. "From what?"
"From yourself." Matthew leans forward, elbows on knees, that vulture smile fixed in place.
"You're a single woman attempting to control one of the oldest financial institutions in the world.
The market is unkind to women without partners.
A husband provides stability. Credibility. Protection from hostile takeovers—"
"A husband provides nothing I can't provide for myself."
"The market disagrees." Mother sets down her teacup with a soft clink that sounds like a cell door closing. "You're young. Emotional. The board will eat you alive without someone steady beside you. Your father knew that."
"He would never force me into marriage."
"He believed in choice." Mother's eyes meet mine, identical blue, cold as a frozen lake. "I believe in survival. Weakness is a luxury the rich can't afford, Izzy."
The nickname sounds wrong in her mouth. Poisonous. Dad called me Izzy. She's always insisted on Isabelle, full name, like I'm being introduced to disappointment.
She's using his voice to bury me.
"However," she continues, smoothing her skirt like we're discussing weather, "I've taken the liberty of handling the situation."
Ice floods my veins. "Handling what?"
"Cal has graciously agreed to marry you."
The room tilts.
Cal Reznick straightens in his chair, that oily smile spreading across his face like something toxic. Matthew nods approvingly. Harrison raises his glass in a silent toast, smirking. Julie's eyes go wide with something that looks almost like pity.
Only Great-Aunt Cordelia's expression doesn't change. She's watching me. Watching them. Filing everything away behind those ancient, knowing eyes.
"Absolutely not."
"Be reasonable—"
"I said no." My voice could cut glass. "I'm not marrying him. I'm not marrying anyone you pick. I'm not a piece of property to be traded to whatever man makes you the best offer."
"Isabelle." Cal stands, moving toward me with his hands raised like I'm a spooked horse. "I understand that you're upset. But if you'd just give me a chance to show you—"
"Touch me, and I'll end you."
He stops. Something ugly flashes in his eyes. The real man behind the polished mask.
Then he smiles again, and it's worse.
"Your father always said you had spirit." He straightens his cuffs. "I'll enjoy taming it."
Taming it.
I'm going to burn them all.
"The clause specifies a legal marriage." Bernard's voice wavers. "It doesn't require—"
"Thank you, Bernard." Mother stands, signaling the end of the discussion with the authority of a dictator dismissing parliament. "Isabelle, you have three months to find a suitable alternative. If you can't, Cal's offer stands. I suggest you start being realistic about your options."
I'm moving before she finishes. Out the door, down the hall, past priceless paintings and generations of Davenport ancestors, who probably arranged marriages just like this one.
"Isabelle." Matthew appears at my elbow, his hand closing around my upper arm. Again. "Wait—"
I wrench free. "Don't touch me."
"I understand that you're upset." His voice drops, those cold eyes hardening into something that looks like a threat. "But consider your position carefully. You're not equipped to run Davenport Holdings alone. You need someone with experience, with connections. Cal can provide that."
"I'll find my own husband."
"Will you?" His smile turns sharp. "Three months isn't long. And the board will scrutinize any choice you make. They'll require someone with substance. Someone who can't be dismissed."
I stare at him. At this man who's been circling my family for twenty years, waiting for exactly this moment.
"You did this." The words come out quiet. Certain. "The clause. Somehow you convinced Dad—"
"Your father made his own choices." Matthew's mask doesn't slip. "I'm simply trying to help you make yours."
I turn my back on him and walk out the door.
Sergei's waiting by the car.
Of course he is.
The evening air hits my face like a slap, cold and sharp and smelling like rain. I'm shaking. Rage or fear or some unholy combination that's going to destroy me if I don't channel it somewhere.
"Take me home."
He opens the door without a word. I slide into the back seat. He follows.
Silence fills the space between us as the car pulls away from my mother's townhouse, away from the vultures and their schemes, away from the life I used to think I understood.
Three months.
Three months to find a husband or lose everything my father built.
My mother arranged a marriage to Cal Reznick within days of Dad's death. Too convenient. Too calculated. And the look in her eyes at the will reading...
She wasn't surprised.
Just like she wasn't surprised about Dad's death.
What did you do, Mother?
I pull Dad's lighter from my pocket. Flip it open. The flame catches in the darkness of the car, small and defiant.
"You need a husband."
Sergei's voice breaks through my spiral. I glance at him and the way streetlights paint shadows across his face, all sharp edges and controlled violence.
"Apparently."
I stare at him. At the silver threading through his dark hair. At the tattoos I know snake up his forearms. At the man who kills without flinching and looks at me like I'm worth protecting.
At the only person who's made me feel anything, except grief, in the last seventy-two hours.
He catches me staring. Those grey eyes hold mine in the darkness.
Something clicks into place in my chest. Sharp, cold, reckless.
I need a husband they can't control.
I need a weapon they can't predict.
I flip the lighter closed.
"I have an idea."