Chapter 10
Izzy
"You married who?"
Mother's voice cuts through the phone like a blade dipped in acid. I'm curled up on Sergei's couch, wrapped in one of his shirts, and her rage makes me smile.
"Sergei Orlov," I repeat, savoring each syllable. "The Wolf. You remember him, my former bodyguard? Dad hired him for me? The one who made Uncle Matthew nervous?"
Silence stretches so long, I check to see if the call dropped. Then she laughs, sharp and brittle. "You stupid, foolish girl."
"Mrs. Orlov now, actually."
"This is a disaster." Her voice shifts, losing the icy control. What's underneath sounds like panic. Like fear. "Isabelle, you need to get this annulled immediately. Before—"
"Before what?" I sit up straighter, blood pounding in my ears. "Before Uncle Matthew finds out? Before Cal realizes he can't have me?"
"Before you get yourself killed." The words come out raw, unfiltered, and cold spreads through my chest. "You have no idea what you've done."
"Then explain it to me."
"I can't." She's breathing too fast now, the polished facade cracking. "Just end this marriage. Today. I'll handle Cal. I'll handle Matthew, but you cannot stay married to that man."
"Why? Because he scares you?" My fingers find Dad's lighter on the coffee table. Sergei returned it to me this morning. "Because he's the one person you can't manipulate or control?"
"Because he's dangerous, Isabelle. The kind of dangerous that gets people killed."
"Like Dad?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
Another silence. This one feels different. Weighted. Guilty.
"Your father's death was an accident," she says finally, but her voice wavers.
"Was it?" I grip the lighter harder, metal biting into my palm. "Because it's awfully convenient timing. The will clause, the marriage requirement, Cal waiting in the wings—"
"Don't." Her voice hardens again, the mask sliding back into place. "Don't go looking for conspiracies where there are none. It will only cause you pain."
"Or it will give me answers."
"Answers won't bring him back." She takes a breath, composing herself. "Come home. We'll discuss this properly, face to face."
"I am home." I look around Sergei's living room, warm and lived-in, nothing like my family's sterile perfection. "With my husband."
"That man is a killer."
"I know." Warmth spreads across my skin, remembering yesterday. The way he moved, efficient and lethal. The way he protected me without hesitation. "That's why I married him."
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, heart hammering against my ribs. Her fear was real, that crack in her perfect armor when I mentioned Sergei's name. She's terrified of him, and that tells me everything I need to know about how dangerous my family really is.
What are you hiding, Mother?
I pull up my contacts, scrolling to a number I haven't used in years.
Wesley Cahill, private investigator, discreet as hell, expensive enough that only people with real secrets hire him.
He worked for Dad once, tracking down embezzlers in the company.
If anyone can dig into that yacht explosion, it's him.
He answers on the third ring. "Miss Davenport. Been a while."
"Mrs. Orlov now," I correct automatically. "I need you to investigate my father's death."
"I heard about that. My condolences."
"Save them." My voice comes out harder than intended. "I think it was murder. I need you to re-examine the explosion, the boat service records, everything. Find out what the official investigation missed."
He's quiet for a beat. "That kind of digging makes enemies."
"I already have enemies." I think of the past few days. "What's a few more?"
"Alright. I'll need access to—"
The front door opens. Sergei walks in carrying a small duffel bag, and behind him, a tiny figure with dark braided hair peers around his legs.
Mila.
"I have to go," I tell Wesley. "Email me what you need." I hang up before he can respond.
Sergei's gaze finds mine across the room, and heat flashes between us, immediate and visceral. He's wearing dark jeans and a black henley that fits him like a second skin, and my body remembers exactly how those muscles feel pressed against me.
"Izzy, this is Mila," he says, one hand resting on his daughter's shoulder. "Ptichka, this is Isabelle, my wife."
The word sounds strange in his mouth. Possessive and protective.
Mila studies me with those hazel-green eyes that see too much. She's small for eight, delicate-looking, but there's steel in the way she holds herself, like she's learned early that the world isn't safe.
"Hi," I manage, suddenly nervous. What do I say to a child? Especially one who's watching me like I'm a puzzle she's trying to solve?
"You're pretty," Mila says finally. "Papa said you were pretty."
My face burns. Sergei's expression doesn't change, but his jaw tightens slightly.
"Thank you." I slide off the couch, still wearing Sergei's shirt and nothing else except underwear. Mila's gaze drops to my bare legs, then back up. "I should probably—"
"Go get dressed," Sergei finishes. His voice is rough, eyes darkening as they trace the curve of my thighs.
I flee upstairs, face burning. In the bedroom, I pull on jeans and one of the few blouses Marco brought. My reflection shows kiss-bruised lips and marks on my neck that I can't quite hide under the collar.
When I come back down, Mila's set up a chessboard on the coffee table. She's sitting cross-legged on the floor, pieces already arranged, and Sergei's settling across from her with the kind of patience I didn't know he possessed.
"White or black, ptichka?" he asks.
"Black. I like the challenge." She grins up at him, and it transforms her serious little face into brightness.
I hover in the doorway, watching them. Sergei moves his pawn and Mila counters immediately, no hesitation. They play in comfortable silence, broken only by her occasional questions about strategy or his quiet explanations about controlling the center.
He's gentle with her. Careful. Every sharp edge he shows the rest of the world is smoothed away until he's just a father teaching his daughter how to think three moves ahead.
His voice drops to that low rumble when he explains an opening, and she listens with absolute focus, trusting him completely.
I watch Sergei guide Mila's hand to a better position. Watch the way she laughs when she captures his knight. Watch them together like this.
I'm getting attached.
Not just to the dangerous silver-haired man who kills for me without hesitation. But to this. The softness underneath. The father who builds safe spaces for his daughter. The man who's trying desperately to be better than what he was.
"Checkmate," Mila announces, triumphant.
Sergei studies the board, then tips his king over in surrender. "Well-played."
"You let me win," she accuses, but she's smiling.
"I taught you well," he corrects. His gaze lifts, finding me in the doorway. Those grey eyes pin me in place, reading the expression on my face in a way that makes his mouth curve slightly. "Izzy, come sit. Mila wants to know if you play."
"Badly," I admit, moving to join them. "Your father will destroy me in three moves."
"Four, maybe," Sergei says. "I'll be gentle."
The way he says gentle makes desire curl through me. Mila resets the board, oblivious to the tension crackling between her father and me.
I take white, make my opening move, and try not to think about how easily I could fall for this. For him. For her. For the life they're offering me that's built on lies and violence and might be love, if I'm not careful.