Page 37 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

I stared at the photos.

After Isabella left, I'd imagined a hundred versions of what her life looked like.

Maybe she'd been hiding alone in some unfamiliar city, wrecked by what happened between me and Elena that night. Maybe she'd been too afraid to come back to New York, worried about the families and the media. Maybe she'd been waiting for me to find her, to explain.

That was why I'd poured all my rage into Elena. I'd decided Elena ruined everything.

But Isabella looked light and free in those pictures. She drank. She danced. She let strange men touch her like New York was already a closed chapter.

"Did she run into any trouble?" I asked.

"Not so far," Feodor said. "Honestly, she looked like she was doing pretty damn well."

I lifted my gaze to him.

"I'm just stating facts," he added.

"Get out."

Feodor didn't argue. He left the room.

When the door shut, I flipped through the photos again.

Isabella was safe. Happy. Unhurt. I should've felt relieved. Instead, a dull, sick irritation sat in my chest like I'd been played. Why hadn't she contacted me? If she'd really left because Elena forced her out, why didn't she look forced at all?

Maybe Elena had told the truth. Maybe she hadn't set anything up to drive Isabella away. Maybe Elena and I were the ones left behind, standing in the wreckage.

I'd spent more than a decade controlling business in this city. I could spot a rat from a blurry money trail. I could tell where a bullet came from before the echo died.

But I might've been wrong about Isabella from the start.

That thought pissed me off more than the ambush.

I forced myself through the rest of the paperwork. Route changes. Dock ledgers. Next month's volume. Every detail had to be exact. I never allowed work to slip out of my grip, but tonight I read the same line of numbers three times and still didn't absorb it.

Elena's face, wet with tears, saying, That isn't fair, wouldn't leave me alone.

When I got back to the manor, it was past midnight.

Only a few wall lamps stayed on in the hall. After my mother died, I'd gotten used to the emptiness. No matter how late I came back, the only thing waiting was a night servant and silence. But the moment the front door opened, a warm scent drifted toward me.

Tomatoes, butter, fresh basil crushed between fingers.

I took off my coat and followed it.

The dining room lights were on. Elena stood by the long table, setting down the last plate. She'd changed out of the dress and wore a loose, simple gown, her hair pulled back without fuss.

When she saw me, she paused.

"You're back."

It sounded too natural, like we'd lived this way for years.

I stood in the doorway and took in the spread: braised beef in tomato, toasted bread, vegetables, handmade pasta.

"You made all this?"

"Most of it." She tucked her hands behind her back. "Olga helped me find the ingredients. The chef showed me how to work the oven. After that I sent them to bed."