Page 58 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

"No. I didn't do that. How could I? I didn't even know there was a camera in the room."

"But the video exists. I watched it. It didn't look fake."

"I don't know where it came from," she said, steady and unblinking, "but it wasn't me."

Olga stepped closer like something clicked in her mind.

"Are you sure Isabella didn't shoot it herself?" Olga said. "That woman was capable of it. You and Elena finally started getting stable, and she suddenly came back. You don't think that was too convenient?"

I remembered Isabella showing up at my birthday party, fragile on purpose. I remembered her back on the terrace, that dead-set posture before she tried to jump.

I couldn't—couldn't—make my brain accept she'd planned all of it.

Elena watched me not answer. Whatever hope she'd been holding onto died in her eyes.

"I said it wasn't me. If you're going to believe her no matter what, then I'll go. I'll give her my spot. I'll make it easy for you two."

"Don't threaten me with leaving." My temples throbbed.

The second she said she'd go, my heart went hollow.

"She handed you a video, and you convicted me on the spot," Elena said, voice breaking. "She sent that photo, and you still rushed to explain it for her first."

The words stabbed right where I refused to touch. She wasn't wrong. And still, heat surged in me like I'd been insulted.

"Because she got tortured after she left," I snapped, "and you get everything you want."

Elena stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "What do I get? A husband who can drop me anytime Isabella snaps her fingers?"

"Kiryan!" Olga barked. "Stop saying that shit. Elena isn't your enemy. Couldn't you see how much you're hurting her?"

I did see it. That was the problem. I saw it too clearly, and I sounded more and more like my father. I needed to get out of there. If I stayed, I'd say something I couldn't take back.

I copied the photo. Then I walked to the coffee table and grabbed my car keys.

"Kiryan," Elena called after me, her voice shaking. "Please. Don't go to Isabella. Not this time. Just... not this time."

I didn't turn around. The door closed behind me, cutting off Olga's scolding and Elena's muffled crying.

I drove out of the manor, foot heavy on the gas. Fuck.

On one side, Isabella's secret video and the suffering she claimed she'd lived through after leaving. On the other, Elena's face—shocked so blank it looked emptied out. I didn't know which one of them was lying. And I couldn't stand the idea that I might've judged the wrong person from the start.

I needed answers.

Forty minutes later, I stopped under Isabella's apartment building. The more I looked at that photo, the more staged it felt. I killed the screen, went upstairs, and knocked.

Isabella opened the door, startled. "Kiryan?"

I shoved my phone in front of her face. "Explain."

Her pupils tightened.

"Why did you take a picture that made it look like we fucked?" I said. "And why did you send it to Elena?"

She backed up half a step, hands clasped in front of her. "I woke up, and you were still there. I got scared that if you left, everything would go back to how it was. I wanted a photo. Something to keep."

"You needed to strip down and press yourself on me for a keepsake?"