Chapter 35
Izzy
“The court has scheduled a competency hearing for tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” My stomach drops. “As in the day of the gala?”
The timing isn’t coincidental. Mother wants me in court, stressed and distracted, hours before we face Matthew at the gala.
“She’s trying to throw me off balance.”
“Probably. She’s got two psychiatrists willing to testify that your recent behavior—the violence, the isolation, the quote ‘erratic decision-making’—indicates a mental health crisis requiring intervention.”
“Paid psychiatrists. Who’ve never met me. Who are basing their testimony on whatever lies my mother has fed them.”
“Probably. But it doesn’t matter. The motion’s filed. We have twenty-four hours to prepare a defense, or you’ll be in front of the judge tomorrow morning.”
I close my eyes, breathing through the rage building in my chest. Mother’s playing dirty now. Desperate. She’s trying to paint me as crazy.
“What do we need?”
“Character witnesses. Medical records proving you’re stable.
Ideally, your own psychiatric evaluation from someone credible who can testify you’re of sound mind.
” Diane pauses. “Izzy, this is serious. If the judge rules against you, everything falls apart. The marriage, the inheritance, your legal standing. Your mother becomes your conservator pending evaluation, which means she controls everything.”
Over my dead body.
“I’ll handle it.” I hang up before she can argue.
Behind me, footsteps on the stairs. Sergei appears in the doorway, silver-threaded hair disheveled from sleep, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips. The tattoos on his torso are on full display—wolves and roses and Cyrillic script I still haven’t asked him to translate.
He’s devastating. Dangerous. Mine.
“Who do we hate?” His voice is rough with sleep, eyes sharp despite the early hour.
“My mother. She filed a motion to have me declared mentally incompetent. Wants to invalidate our marriage and seize control of my inheritance.”
His expression goes cold. Lethal. The Wolf waking up. “When?”
“Hearing’s tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. Hours before the gala. She’s panicking. Knows we’re coming for her and Matthew. This is her last play—discredit me before I can use the evidence against them.”
“She’s underestimating you. Again.”
“She keeps doing that.” My hands slide up his abs, feeling muscle shift under olive skin. “You’d think she’d learn.”
“Some people never do. What’s your play?”
“Mutually assured destruction. I have the recording of her confessing to the affair and conspiracy. If she tries to paint me as crazy, I release it to every news outlet in Manhattan. Her reputation burns, Matthew goes down, and she spends the rest of her life in prison or social exile.”
“Scorched earth.”
“I need to confront her. Today. Make her understand that backing off is her only option.”
“Not alone.”
“Sergei—”
“Not. Alone. Your mother’s desperate. Desperate people do stupid, violent things. You walk into her townhouse solo, and you might not walk out.”
“She won’t hurt me. I’m her daughter.”
“She conspired to murder her husband. She’s sleeping with the man who tried to kill you multiple times. She’s filing legal motions to destroy your life. You think maternal instinct suddenly kicks in when you threaten to expose her?”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
“Fine. You come with me. But you stay in the car. This conversation needs to be daughter to mother. Woman to woman. She sees you, she’ll use it as evidence I’m being controlled or manipulated.”
“I’ll stay in the car. But if I hear anything that sounds like a threat, I’m coming in. And your mother won’t like what happens next.”
“Deal.”
I drain my now-cold coffee, suddenly energized despite the early hour. “Get dressed. We’re going to the Upper East Side for a family reunion.”
An hour later, we’re parked outside Mother’s townhouse. I’ve been here a thousand times—Christmases, birthdays, awkward dinners, when she criticized everything from my posture to my life choices.
Now I’m here to destroy her.
Sergei’s behind the wheel, eyes tracking every pedestrian, every car, every potential threat. The Glock’s holstered at his hip, barely concealed, and I know he’s got at least two knives hidden somewhere on his body.
My own gun sits heavily in my purse beside Dad’s lighter. I’ve gotten comfortable with the weight, with the knowledge that I can protect myself if necessary.
“Ten minutes,” Sergei says, checking his watch. “If you’re not out in ten, I’m coming in.”
“Twenty. This conversation might take time. Trust me.”
“I do. It’s your mother I don’t trust.”
Fair point.
I exit the car, smoothing my black pencil skirt and silk blouse. Armor disguised as business casual. The door opens before I can knock—Charles, the family’s butler.
“Miss Isabelle.” His face is carefully neutral. “Your mother wasn’t expecting you.”
“That’s the point.” I step past him into the foyer, marble and brass and the smell of expensive flowers. “Where is she?”
“The drawing room. But Miss, perhaps you should call first—”
“Thanks, Charles.” I’m already moving, heels clicking on marble, following the path to Mother’s favorite room.
She’s exactly where I expect her—perched on that ivory settee, wearing cream Chanel and pearls, ash-blonde hair perfect, makeup flawless. She looks like she’s about to host a tea party, not fight a legal war with her daughter.
She glances up when I enter. “Isabelle. How unexpected. I assume you’re here about the competency hearing.”
“I’m here to give you one last chance to withdraw the motion. One chance to walk away from this before I destroy everything you’ve built.”
Her laugh is cold. “Destroy me? Darling, you’re the one facing a psychiatric evaluation tomorrow. I’m simply concerned about your well-being. Any loving mother would be.”
“Any loving mother wouldn’t have conspired to murder her husband. Any loving mother wouldn’t have a fifteen-year affair with her brother-in-law. Any loving mother wouldn’t be helping that same man try to kill her daughter.”
“Careful, Isabelle.”
“Need I remind you of our last conversation? The one where you confessed to conspiracy and murder. The one where you admitted to the affair. You know that I have the full recording.”
“Isabelle—”
“Here’s what’s going to happen. You withdraw the competency motion. Today. You call your lawyers, tell them you’ve reconsidered, that you were acting out of grief or fear or whatever lie you want to spin. And then you disappear. No more legal games. No more attempts to control my inheritance.”
“If you still didn’t report me, I doubt you ever will. You’re bluffing.”
“Am I? One click and the recording goes to The Times, the Post, every society blog that’s been covering the Davenport family drama. Your reputation—the only thing you’ve ever actually cared about—burns in about thirty seconds. Back off or I burn you. Your choice.”
“If I tell you about the gala, will you delete the recording?”
“That depends. What’s Matthew’s plan?”
“I don’t know the details. He doesn’t tell me everything anymore.
But he’s been meeting with men from Chicago.
Expensive men. The kind who don’t fail. Please.
Whatever’s between us, whatever I’ve done—you’re still my daughter.
Don’t go to that gala. Let Matthew have the company. Let him win. Just stay alive.”
The concern sounds genuine. Almost convincing.
Almost.
“You don’t get to play concerned mother now.” I turn toward the door. “Withdraw the motion by end of business today. Or I release everything and let the courts handle you both.”
“Isabelle—”
“Oh, and Mother?” I glance back. “Tell Matthew I’m coming. Tell him The Wolf’s wife doesn’t run from fights. She finishes them.”
I walk out, leaving her standing alone in that perfect drawing room, surrounded by perfect things that can’t hide the rot underneath.
Charles is waiting in the foyer. He hands me my coat without a word, but his eyes hold something like approval.
“Your father would be proud, Miss.” His voice is soft, meant only for me.
I swallow hard, nodding once, and step out into the grey morning light.
Sergei’s out of the car before I reach it, reading my expression with frightening accuracy. “You okay?”
“She tried to warn me off the gala. Said Matthew’s hired Chicago professionals. Real killers.” I slide into the passenger seat, suddenly exhausted. “She almost sounded like she cared.”
“She cares about covering her ass.” He starts the engine, pulling away from the townhouse. “If you die at the gala, all that evidence points straight back to her. She needs you alive to maintain plausible deniability.”
“Comforting.”
“I’m not here to comfort you.” His hand finds my thigh, warm and grounding through the silk of my skirt. “I’m here to keep you alive. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” I cover his hand with mine, threading our fingers together. “Because you’re doing a pretty good job of both.”
His jaw tightens, grey eyes flicking from the road to me and back. “Did she withdraw the motion?”
“She will. By end of day.” I lean my head back against the seat, watching Brooklyn slide past through the window. “I gave her no choice. Even Mother’s not stupid enough to choose pride over survival.”
“Good.” He squeezes my hand once before releasing it, needing both hands to navigate traffic. “Now we focus on the gala. Tomorrow. We need you trained, prepared, and ready to kill if Matthew forces your hand.”
“I’m ready.” And I am. The fear I used to feel about violence has been replaced by cold determination. Matthew tried to take everything from me—my father, my inheritance, my life. Now I’m taking it back.
With interest.
My phone buzzes. Diane.
Motion withdrawn. Catherine’s lawyers just filed paperwork, citing “undue stress and premature filing.” Hearing cancelled. You’re clear.
I show Sergei the text. He smiles.
“She folded fast.”
“Because she knows I’ll do it. Release everything. Burn her entire world down without hesitation.” I pocket the phone, pulling out Dad’s lighter instead. The gold catches afternoon light, still scorched, still perfect. “She underestimated what I’d become. What we’d become together.”
“A lot of people make that mistake. Thinking you’re just some rich girl playing at danger. They don’t see the Wolf underneath until it’s too late.”
“And you?”
“I saw it the moment you proposed marriage in my office. Knew you were trouble wrapped in Prada. “ His hand returns to my thigh, higher this time, fingers splaying possessive against silk. “Best decision I ever made, saying yes.”
Heat floods through me. I squeeze my thighs together, trapping his hand, and watch satisfaction flash across his face.
“We’re not having sex in the car.”
“Don’t worry, I can wait until we get home.” His thumb traces small circles that make my breath catch. “Contrary to the popular belief, I have some control over myself.” His smile is pure sin. “And a lot of ideas what to do once I let go.”
“Then you better take us home. I want to make sure we’re there to put Mila to bed on time.”
“Good idea.” He removes his hand from my thigh with visible reluctance. “She’s been asking when we’re getting her a little brother or sister.”
I choke on air. “What?”
“Relax. I told her that’s not happening anytime soon.” He’s grinning now, actually grinning. “But she’s persistent. Takes after me.”
“God help us both.”
His laugh rumbles through the car, warm and genuine, and I let myself imagine it. A future past tomorrow. Past Matthew and Mother and all the violence we’re about to wade through. A future where this fake marriage becomes the realest thing I’ve ever built.
Where The Wolf and his wife become a family, instead of a partnership.
Where I stop running from what I feel and admit that somewhere between bullets and blood, I fell for the dangerous man beside me.
But that’s future talk.
The lighter clicks closed as we pull into the garage. Inside, I can hear Mila laughing, probably at one of Andrei’s terrible jokes. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
Worth fighting for.
Worth killing for.
I slip the lighter into my pocket and follow Sergei inside, ready for whatever comes next.
Tomorrow, everything will change.