Page 51 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

Isabella brushed my arm.

"Have a drink with me. Just one." Her voice softened. "You need to calm down. I do too."

I looked at her. I remembered dragging her back from the terrace edge. The refusal rose to my tongue, then I swallowed it. And I couldn't deny it—I needed alcohol to loosen the knot in my head.

I turned to the liquor cabinet, pulled a whiskey, and poured two glasses. Isabella took hers, her fingertips grazing mine.

"You said you wanted closure," I said, draining half my glass in one swallow. "How?"

The burn tore down my throat, but it didn't erase Elena's face flashing in my head. I poured myself more.

"I don't know." Isabella stared into her drink. "Maybe when I can watch you with her and not feel my heart rip apart. Maybe when I accept you'll never love me again."

"Don't hand your life over to time. Time doesn't take responsibility for anyone."

"Then you decide for me."

She finished her drink and walked toward me, swaying. I caught her. She melted into my chest, that familiar-but-not scent of her perfume sliding into my lungs.

And my body remembered a different scent first—paint, soap, and the orange blossom that clung to Elena's hair.

Isabella tipped her face up, fingers slipping inside my collar. I closed my hand around her wrist.

"Stop."

Her lashes fluttered like she didn't understand. "We've both been drinking. Things happen. That's normal."

"That isn't a reason."

If this had been before, her body this close would've sparked something in me. But I felt nothing.

I thought of my father—cheating like it was nothing, living in his mistress's bed, wearing perfume that didn't belong to my mother, then sitting at the head of the table like a king. He'd made my mother doubt herself. He'd let her wither while she waited.

I'd sworn I'd never be that man.

Whether Elena had played me or not, she was my wife. Evidence could change what I believed about her. It couldn't erase my line.

While I was thinking, Isabella's face drifted closer. I turned my head. Her kiss landed on my neck instead.

I grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back to arm's length.

"You really don't want me anymore?" Her eyes looked wounded.

"I have a wife."

"A wife who threatened me. A wife who lied to you."

"Whatever she did, I'll find out. But until then, she is Mrs. Morozova. I'm not touching another woman in my marriage."

Isabella went white.

"I'm taking you home." I walked to the door.

She stood there for a long time before she followed.

By the time we drove away, the city had sunk into deep night. Isabella leaned in the passenger seat, eyes shut, one hand pressing her temple. She didn't speak the whole ride. She only opened her eyes when we stopped under her building.

"Get out," I said, glancing at her.