Chapter 7
ISABELLA
Iwake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and the smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs.
For a moment, disorientation clouds everything. Then memory returns: New Orleans. The Pascal mansion. The guest suite just down the hall from Remy's bedroom suite—the one he had as a child and a young man.
The planning session stretched past midnight, all of us building an approach for New York that might actually work.
And before that, the back gallery with its moonlight and magnolias. We established parameters between us with clinical precision that somehow made everything more intimate, not less.
My body remembers the weight of his gaze, the deliberate way he stepped into my space, the promise in his voice when he said he'd show me what control means. When we have time, he'd told me. When it's safe.
That time might be sooner than either of us planned.
I shower in the guest bathroom, grateful for the clothes Margot lent me last night. The sundress is simple, fitted, more elegant than anything I've worn since Remy pulled me out of that warehouse in Prague.
When I look in the mirror, I almost don't recognize myself. The fugitive scientist is gone. In her place stands someone who could belong in a house like this.
The moment won't last. It can't.
Downstairs, voices carry from the kitchen. I follow the sound and the coffee smell, find Margot at the stove and Luc reading something on his tablet at the breakfast table. There's no sign of Remy yet.
"Bonjour," I say.
Margot glances over her shoulder. "Coffee's fresh. Mugs in the cabinet above the pot."
I pour myself a cup, add cream from the small pitcher on the counter. The first sip is perfect—dark, rich, with a hint of something earthy I can't quite place. It tastes distinctly of New Orleans.
"You slept well?" Margot asks, plating what looks like pain perdu.
"Very well. Thank you for letting me stay."
"Remy's family. That makes you family by extension." She sets plates on the table, gestures for me to sit. "Whether I like it or not."
The words could be hostile, but her tone carries something softer than yesterday's rage. Something that might be the beginning of thaw.
Luc looks up from his tablet. "Morning planning session starts soon. Remy's checking perimeter security, then we'll review the New York approach."
"I thought we finalized everything last night."
"We finalized the initial plan." His smile is sharp. "Now we stress-test it until we find the holes."
Military thinking. Assume the plan will fail, prepare for every contingency. I'm learning their language, the way operators communicate in tactical shorthand that carries weight beyond words.
Margot sets pain perdu in front of me—thick slices of bread soaked in custard, fried golden, dusted with powdered sugar. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
The command is so much like something Remy would say that I almost smile. Family resemblance runs deeper than features.
Partway through breakfast, Remy appears in the doorway. He's wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that shows the bandages on his arms, the careful way he moves around cracked ribs.
He looks at me, holds the contact a beat longer than casual before turning to his brother.
"Perimeter's secure," he tells Luc. "No signs of surveillance, no unusual activity. If Lazarev tracked us here, he's being subtle about it."
"Or waiting," Luc says.
"Or waiting." Remy pours coffee, leans against the counter. "We leave for New York tomorrow morning. Early flight, separate bookings, meet at the hotel. Cerberus will coordinate with my contacts for backup."
"And the approach?" I ask.
"Depends on what we learn today." His attention shifts back to me, brief but intense before control locks it down. "We'll need your technical expertise for the planning session. Details about the research, what buyers would ask, how to verify authenticity."
"Of course."
"I can take her shopping," Margot offers. "Magazine Street has everything she needs."
"For what?" I ask.
Remy and Margot exchange a look. "We'll discuss it during planning," he says.
"No time." Remy sets his mug down. "We use what's here. Maman kept formal wear for charity events, functions at Papa's oil company. Isabella's close to the same size."
Margot stiffens slightly but doesn't argue. After a moment, she nods. "Second floor. Master suite closet. Take what you need."
The permission carries weight. Access to their mother's things feels like a small opening in the wall Margot's been maintaining.
When the last of the pain perdu disappears, Margot sets down her fork and looks between her brothers with the particular patience of a woman who runs a kitchen and therefore tolerates no nonsense.
"You two." She gestures at the plates. "You know where everything goes."
Luc opens his mouth.
"Non." She's already untying her apron. "I cooked. Isabella is a guest." A beat, aimed at Remy. "You're neither."
Remy takes the plates without argument. Luc follows with the mugs, grumbling something under his breath that earns him a look sharp enough to cut glass.
I hide a smile behind my coffee cup.
By the time the kitchen is restored to Margot's standards, my head is full of contingency plans and questions I don't yet have answers to.
Remy leads me upstairs past the gallery, past his room, to the master suite at the end of the hall. The room is exactly as his parents must have left it—four-poster bed with antique linens, photographs scattered around the room, his mother's perfume bottles still arranged on the vanity.
It smells like lavender and old paper, preserved time captured in a space Margot hasn't been able to change.
"Here." Remy opens the walk-in closet, gestures to evening gowns and cocktail dresses organized by color. "Maman attended a lot of functions. Charity galas, oil industry events, political fundraisers. She knew how to dress for power."
I run my fingers along silk and satin, tailored jackets and elegant skirts.
The silhouettes are classic—structured shoulders, clean lines, nothing that chases a trend.
A wardrobe built to last decades, not seasons.
Impeccably maintained, expensive without being ostentatious.
The kind of clothes that don't date because they were never trying to be current in the first place.
"Why do I need any of this?" I ask. "I thought I was just providing technical input for planning."
"This one." Remy pulls out a dress—deep emerald silk, fitted bodice, subtle slit in the skirt. He doesn't answer my question, just holds the dress up, studying it. Then he looks at me. "You're going to New York."
The words land like a physical blow. "What?"
"We need your expertise. Someone who can answer technical questions and verify the work is genuine."
"But won't that let everyone who's looking for us know where I am?" I say, trying to mask my concern.
Remy nods. "Yes, but it will be in New York, not New Orleans.
Easy to fly in and out from anywhere. So it's more they'll know where you were, not necessarily where you are.
You can answer technical questions, verify the work is real.
You're the only person who can answer those questions without raising suspicion. "
"Remy—"
"I know." He sets the dress down, turns to face me fully. "I know what I'm asking. But if we send anyone else, if we fake the credentials or try to bluff our way through technical questions, these people will know. They'll walk away or worse, they'll make us disappear."
"So you want me to walk into a room full of weapons dealers selling chemical weapons."
"I want you to help us identify who's buying and shut down the network before anyone dies." His voice softens slightly. "But I won't force you. If you can't do this, we'll find another way."
I look at the dress, at him, at the impossible situation we're in. "What other way?"
"I don't know yet. But I'll find one."
The honesty in his voice tells me he means it. He'll try to find another approach even though we both know there isn't one. Not one that works as well. Not one that doesn't risk everything.
"I'll do it," I say quietly.
"Isabella—"
"You're right. They need someone with the expertise to verify it's real. And I have that expertise." I meet his gaze. “Besides, this is my research they weaponized. My work that's killing people. I should be the one to help stop it."
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or respect. "Then you'll need to look the part. Fit in with people with money, connections, resources to acquire weapons-grade compounds."
"I'm a scientist, not an actress."
"You're brilliant and adaptable." He hands me the dress. "And you've already had some experience with being someone else. This is just a different role."
He's right, but that doesn't make it easier. I take the dress, along with a tailored blazer and heels that Margot probably wore once and filed away.
The guest room is down the hall, but Remy stops me before I reach it.
"Use my room," he says. "Better mirror, more space. I'll wait."
His bedroom suite. The space he grew up in, became himself in, left behind when he joined the SEALs and never quite came back to.
I set the dress on the bed, slip out of Margot's borrowed sundress, and step into emerald silk.
The fabric slides over my skin like water. Expensive, beautifully cut, designed for a woman who understood power dynamics and how to use them.
The hidden zipper runs up my spine, and I reach back awkwardly, can't quite manage the angle.
"Remy?" I call through the door.
He enters, closes it behind him. For a moment, he just looks at me—dress half-zipped, hair falling loose over bare shoulders, standing in his bedroom wearing his mother's clothes.
"Turn around."
I obey without thinking. His fingers find the zipper, draw it up slowly. Each inch of closure feels deliberate, controlled, his knuckles brushing my spine with the kind of precision that suggests he's testing boundaries we established last night.