Chapter 17
ISABELLA
Sunlight streams through windows, warm and golden in a way Geneva's winter light never managed. I wake slowly, disoriented for a moment before memory returns: New Orleans. The Pascal mansion. Remy's childhood suite with walls half-knocked down to connect it to what will become our shared space.
Our space. Permanent. Real.
Remy's already gone from the bed, but the indent in his pillow still holds his warmth.
I stretch, feeling muscles protest from days of running and fighting and surviving.
The aches ground me, proof that Rotterdam happened, that we made it out, that this isn't some fever dream conjured by exhaustion and adrenaline.
Voices drift up from downstairs, and the smell of coffee mingles with something sweeter. Beignets, maybe, or pain perdu. My stomach reminds me we survived on protein bars and adrenaline for the better part of a week.
I shower quickly in the guest bathroom, grateful for the clothes Margot mentioned leaving in the closet.
I find a simple sundress in deep green, fitted but comfortable, the kind of thing that could belong in a house like this.
When I check my reflection, the fugitive scientist is gone.
The woman staring back looks rested, settled, ready to build something permanent.
The transformation feels dangerous. Like tempting fate.
But I'm done running, done hiding, done letting fear dictate my choices.
Downstairs, I follow the sound of voices and coffee to the kitchen.
Margot's already at the stove, plating pain perdu with the same practiced efficiency she brings to everything.
The familiar smell of chicory coffee mingles with magnolias drifting through the open French doors, underlaid with cinnamon and vanilla that makes my stomach remind me I'm hungry.
Luc sits at the breakfast table with his laptop, reading something with tactical focus. Remy leans against the counter with his coffee, watching me enter with an expression that makes heat coil low in my belly.
Possessive. Satisfied. Mine.
"Bonjour," I say, forcing myself to focus on anything except the way he's looking at me.
Margot glances over her shoulder. "Coffee's fresh… you remember where the mugs are, right?"
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 that I’ve come to expect from the flavors of New Orleans. Not quite chicory, but something else underneath, a blend Margot has perfected.
"You slept well?" Margot asks, setting plates on the table with deliberate care.
"Very well. Thank you for everything you've done to make us comfortable."
"You're family now." Margot's tone is matter-of-fact. "Remy's chosen you, and you chose to stay. That makes you a Pascal."
The acceptance is real this time, not grudging.
Luc closes his laptop. "Sit. Eat. We have business to discuss."
The pain perdu is incredible and served with fresh berries that burst tart and sweet on my tongue.
"This is amazing," I say after the first bite.
"Maman's recipe." Margot pours coffee for herself, joins us at the table.
"She taught me everything about Creole cooking.
Said food was how we preserve culture when everything else tries to erase it.
" She takes a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim.
"She used to make this every Sunday morning.
Said breakfast was the most important meal for family. "
Remy's watching his sister with something that might be surprise. "I didn't know you kept her recipes."
"I kept everything." Margot's voice is sharp.
"Someone had to. You were busy playing soldier then spy, Luc ran off to follow in your shoes and came home to run Papa's business.
Someone had to stay here, run the restaurant and maintain the house.
The fact that I tried to preserve it as some kind of museum is not something I'm proud of nor would our parents have approved of.
I guess I just felt like changing anything was like erasing them completely. "
The silence stretches, weighted with years of grief and resentment.
"I'm sorry," Remy says quietly. "For leaving. For not being here when you needed me. For making you carry that alone."
Margot studies her brother for a long moment. Then something shifts in her features, tension releasing by small degrees.
"You're here now," she says finally. "That's what matters. And you brought someone worth keeping." Her gaze shifts to me. "Are you staying? Actually staying, or just passing through until something better comes along?"
Remy stiffens, but I touch his hand under the table. This question is fair. Margot's been abandoned too many times.
"We're staying," I say, meeting her eyes directly. "Rotterdam is finished. Lazarev is dead. The Iron Choir's network is scattered. I could run back to Europe and hide in another lab under another name. But I don't want to run anymore. I want to build something permanent here with your brother."
"Even knowing what he is? What he's done?"
"Especially knowing." I don't look away. "I watched him walk into fire to save me. I watched him hunt down the man who'd been trying to kill him for years and end that threat without hesitation. I know exactly who Remy is, and I'm choosing him not in spite of it but because of it."
Margot's mouth curves slightly. "The Pascal family doesn't do anything halfway. Love, business, vendetta—we commit completely or not at all. There's no middle ground with us."
"I understand."
"Do you?" Her voice carries that same sharp assessment from yesterday. "Because we protect what's ours, and we destroy what threatens it. No exceptions. No apologies."
The warning is clear: choose Remy, choose all of it.
"Good," I say. "Because I need people who commit completely. People who don't run when things get complicated."
Her shoulders drop, the tension releasing. Approval settles in her eyes.
Luc clears his throat. "Now that we've established everyone's staying, we should bring Margot in on the conversation we had on the plane."
Remy nods. "Luc's been thinking about making better use of his experience with Delta Force. A firm specializing in private security, tactical consulting, work that uses his skills without anyone else pulling the strings. He asked me to partner with him."
"Rapier Strategic," I add. "High-end security consultants with a legitimate business front. Corporate protection, threat assessment, intelligence gathering for clients who need discretion and results."
Luc's predator focus locks onto his sister.
"I've been building infrastructure since I left the teams. My import/export business gives me access to equipment suppliers who don't ask questions.
I've got contacts in corporate security and private intelligence from the Dominion contract work.
What I needed was a partner with Remy's specific operational expertise. "
"Someone you trust absolutely," Remy says.
"Exactly." Luc pulls his laptop open, calling up files. "Someone who understands that this work requires precision, control, and the ability to make hard calls without hesitation. Someone who won't flinch when things get ugly."
Margot stands, refilling coffee with studied casualness. "What kind of work are we talking about? Because if this brings the kind of trouble you just escaped from in Rotterdam back to New Orleans..."
"Different work," I say before Remy can answer. "Legitimate security consulting. Executive protection in high-threat environments. Corporate espionage prevention. Asset recovery. Intelligence gathering for clients who need information they can't acquire through official channels."
"Legal work," Luc adds. "Or at least legally defensible. We choose our clients carefully, refuse assignments that cross ethical lines, and maintain the kind of reputation that attracts premium contracts."
Margot looks at me directly. "And where do you fit in this hypothetical security firm?"
"Consulting," Remy says immediately, voice hard with certainty. "Chemical threat assessment, analysis of potential attacks, expertise on weaponized research applications. All from a secure location. She's not going into the field."
The tone brooks no argument, and I find I can accept that boundary. My value isn't in tactical operations.
"I'd also like to teach," I say. "Tulane has an excellent chemistry department. I could rebuild my academic career while consulting for Rapier Strategic part-time. It would provide professional legitimacy and cover for the consulting work."
"Two revenue streams," Luc says. "Academic salary plus consulting fees. Smart. And it gets you established in New Orleans with legitimate credentials."
"It also lets me do the research I love without Iron Choir hunting me," I add.
Margot sets her coffee mug down with deliberate precision. "If you're serious about this security firm, you'll need more than tactical expertise and chemistry consultation. You'll need logistics support."
The three of us turn to look at her.
"What kind of logistics support?" Luc asks carefully.
Her expression turns predatory. "How do you think I learned to coordinate restaurant supply chains across three time zones? Manage inventory that needs precise temperature control during transport? Handle customs documentation for imported ingredients that can't be delayed at borders?"
Remy straightens. "You've been running logistics for more than just your restaurant."
"JJ needed someone who understood complicated supply chains when she was setting up her trafficking rescue operations.
Someone who could coordinate safe houses, arrange transport, handle documentation for victims who needed to disappear from official records.
" Margot's gaze is steady. "I've been providing logistics support to JJ's people for years.
Quietly. Off the books. Because I'm good at it and because it gave me a way to contribute to something that mattered. "