Chapter 32
Izzy
"I can make all of this go away."
I don't move from the couch. Don't give her the satisfaction of thinking she's rattled me. "All of what, exactly?"
"The investigation. The media circus. The witch hunt on Matthew.
" She moves to the bar cart, pouring herself Sergei's scotch like she owns the place.
"I have connections, darling. Judges, prosecutors, people who owe me favors.
One phone call, and the evidence against Matthew becomes. .. questionable."
My hand finds Dad's lighter in my pocket. The familiar weight keeps my voice steady. "And in exchange?"
"You divorce Sergei. Marry Cal. Let the adults handle Davenport Holdings." She takes a delicate sip, lipstick leaving a perfect crimson crescent on the glass. "Simple, really. Everyone gets what they wants."
"Except me."
"You get your life back." She turns, ash-blonde hair catching afternoon light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Her eyes are cold. Calculating. "No more violence. No more hiding in safe houses with that man's daughter. No more pretending you're something you're not."
She's desperate. I can smell it under the Chanel No.
5—that sharp tang of fear she's trying to hide behind power moves and designer armor.
The recording I made at her townhouse has been hanging over her head for weeks.
Every word of her confession. Every admission about knowing Matthew was "planning something.
" She knows I can destroy her with one phone call to the press.
This visit isn't about making deals.
It's about begging.
"What I'm not?" I lean forward, crossing my legs. The Glock holstered at my ankle presses reassuringly against skin. "You mean dangerous? Capable of protecting myself? In love with a man who doesn't treat me like property?"
Mother's laugh is sharp. Brittle. "You think you're in love. How charming. But love doesn't pay for penthouses, Isabelle. It doesn't maintain your lifestyle or protect your inheritance."
"My inheritance that you tried to steal."
"Redistribute," she corrects smoothly, settling into the chair across from me, like we're having tea instead of circling each other like predators.
"Your father was going to destroy everything—give it away to bleeding-heart charities, fund women's shelters, instead of securing our legacy.
Matthew and I were protecting what generations built. "
"By killing him."
"By doing what was necessary." She drains her glass, sets it down with that precise clink that screams old money. "Richard was weak, Isabelle. Sentimental. He would've bankrupted us within five years pursuing his ridiculous philanthropic fantasies."
"We've covered this ground, Mother." I keep my voice flat. Bored. "Your townhouse. Remember? When you admitted you knew Matthew was planning something? When I recorded every word?"
Her face tightens. There it is—the flicker of fear she can't quite hide.
"That recording—"
"Is very clear. Very damning. Very much still in my possession." I smile, all teeth. "Along with the financial records, the yacht footage, and about fifteen other pieces of evidence that prove you helped murder my father."
"I didn't help—"
"Your name is on the account that paid Ivan Olegov.
Your signature. Your money funding Dad's assassination.
" I stand, moving toward the window, forcing her to turn and follow.
"So let's skip the part where you pretend ignorance.
You're here because you know I can destroy you.
The question is what you're willing to offer to stop me. "
Mother rises from the chair, moving to pour herself another scotch. Her hands aren't as steady as before. Good.
"Delete the recording. All of it. The financial records, the testimony, everything." Her voice drops, almost pleading. "I can give you Matthew. Full cooperation. I'll testify against him—say he manipulated me, threatened me, whatever you need. He goes to prison, you get your justice, and I..."
"Walk free? After helping to murder your husband?"
"I didn't know what he was planning—"
"Stop." The word cracks through the room. "Stop lying. I'm so goddamn tired of your lies."
She flinches. Actually flinches. Catherine Davenport, who hasn't shown genuine emotion since I was six years old, flinches at her daughter's voice.
"You want to make a deal?" I advance on her slowly. "Fine. But first, you're going to tell me the truth. The whole truth. Not the sanitized version you've been peddling. Not the 'I didn't know' bullshit. The real story of how you and Matthew decided my father needed to die."
"Isabelle—"
"Now. Or I call Wesley, and every piece of evidence I have hits the press before you make it to your car."
She sinks onto the arm of the chair, suddenly looking older than her years. The Dior can't hide the exhaustion anymore. The pearls look like chains.
"You don't understand what it's like," she whispers. "Being married to a man who loved his ideals more than he loved you. Who chose charity galas and philanthropic boards over his own wife. Who looked at soup kitchens with more passion than he ever looked at me."
"So you found someone who looked at you the way you wanted."
"Matthew and I—" She stops. Starts again.
"We fell in love, Isabelle. Real love. Not the sanitized version your father offered.
Not scheduled dinners and polite conversation and separate bedrooms for the last decade of our marriage.
We were passionate. Alive. He made me feel wanted.
Seen. Like I was more than just the Davenport name and the Davenport fortune. "
"How romantic. An affair that lasted fifteen years and ended in the murder of your husband."
"I didn't want him dead!" The words explode out of her. "Not at first. I loved Richard once—before the distance, before the neglect, before he made it clear that saving the world mattered more than saving his marriage. I wanted a divorce. A clean break. Matthew and I would've been happy—"
"But Dad found out about the embezzlement."
She goes pale. "How do you—"
"Gerald Hartman. Before Matthew's men killed him." I let that land. "Dad wasn't just discovering an affair, was he? He found the money you and Matthew had been skimming. The offshore accounts. The years of theft disguised as miscellaneous expenses."
"We weren't stealing—"
"Two million in a joint Cayman account. Your signature right next to Matthew's.
The same account that paid Ivan Olegov to tamper with Dad's boat.
" I'm close enough now to see the mascara starting to smear, the cracks in her perfect foundation.
"That's not redistribution, Mother. That's embezzlement and conspiracy to commit murder. "
"Richard was going to destroy everything." Her voice breaks. "Not just expose the affair—he found the financial discrepancies. He was building a case. He would've sent us both to prison, taken everything Matthew and I had built—"
"So you killed him first."
"Matthew killed him." She's crying now. Real tears, not the elegant weeping she performed at the funeral. Ugly, desperate tears that streak through her makeup. "I told him there had to be another way. That we could reason with Richard, offer him something, make him understand—"
"Understand what? That his wife had been stealing from him while fucking his brother-in-law?"
"Matthew said it was the only way." She's pacing now, heels clicking against hardwood, words tumbling out like she's been holding them for months.
"He said Richard would never stop. Would never forgive.
Would never let us be together. He said we'd lose everything—the company, the money, each other.
He said one quick solution and all our problems would disappear. "
"Dad. Dad was the 'quick solution.'"
"I told him to find another way." Her voice cracks. "I begged him. But he said the boat was already handled. That it would look like an accident. That no one would ever know."
"And you believed him."
"I wanted to believe him." She stops at the window, staring out at Manhattan like she can escape through the glass.
"I wanted the problem to go away. Wanted my life back.
Wanted—" She laughs, broken and bitter. "I wanted to stop being afraid all the time.
Afraid Richard would find out. Afraid I'd lose everything. Afraid I'd end up alone."
"So you let Matthew murder your husband."
"I didn't let—"
"You knew what he was planning. You didn't stop it. You didn't warn Dad. You didn't call the police." I grab her arm, forcing her to face me. "You stood on the dock and watched my father sail to his death, and you did nothing."
Her face crumbles completely. Not the elegant grief of a socialite, but raw, ugly devastation.
"I loved him," she chokes out. "Matthew. I still love him. Even knowing what he did. Even knowing what that makes me. I can't—" She pulls free, wrapping her arms around herself. "I can't stop loving him, Isabelle. And I hate myself for it."
I should feel satisfaction. Should feel vindicated that she's finally telling the truth, finally showing the rot underneath all that polish.
I don't.
I just feel tired. Tired of her. Tired of Matthew. Tired of the endless web of lies and violence and betrayal that's become my inheritance.
"Here's what's going to happen." My voice comes out flat.
Empty. "You're going to leave my home. You're going to stay away from me, from Sergei, from Mila.
You're not going to contact your lawyers about contesting anything.
You're going to sit quietly and wait for Detective Fraser to come knocking. "
"And the recording? The evidence?"
"Stays exactly where it is. Insurance." I move to the door, opening it wide. "You had your chance to do the right thing. Fifteen years of chances. You chose Matthew every single time. So now you get to live with those choices."