Page 5

Silence settled heavy in the space, broken only by the low hum of the equipment lining the walls. One wall held smaller sized monitors to ensure the girls’ safety when in the various rooms. Marcel made his way over to the larger one that sat across from the desks. While he turned it on and pulled out his phone, Ivan pulled up five chairs.

I took the one next to Alek. “Start talking.”

“Patience, Brother,” Marcel said.

“Why the fuck do I feel like you are blind-siding me?” I huffed, glaring at Alek.

“I’m not. I’m just as clueless.”

That startled me. He was the fucking leader, if he wasn’t the one calling the shots and this was about Isabella… I lifted my eyes to Marcel.

Ivan moved over to the liquor cabinet and grabbed glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He poured each of us a generous amount.

“Am I going to need this, then? I swear, I’m not sure I’m in the proper mood for this shit. Whatever the fuck it is.”

Then the screen lit up. My little sister filled the monitor a second later, Pasha sat beside her at a small table inside her hotel room. My eyes locked onto her immediately, scanning, checking her face, posture, anything that would tell me what the hell was going on before she even spoke.

She looked… off. Not hurt. At least not physically. But everything in her expression made my stomach tighten.

“Sissy, what’s going on?” I asked, already not liking whatever this was.

She didn’t answer right away. Her hand came up instead, brushing a strand of hair that wasn’t even in her face. She was stalling. It was in the way her hand trembled as she tucked the hair behind her ear only for it to fall loose again a second later.

Then she smoothed her palm down the front of her shirt. My jaw tightened as I leaned back in the chair, forcing myself not to crowd the screen like I wanted to. My gaze flickered between her and Pasha.

“Bella,” I pressed, slower this time. “What is all this?”

She straightened her shoulders. “It’s about my list. It originally had fourteen items on it. After several deep discussions with Marcel, I’m ready to share the last item with all of you.”

There was a slight pause as she looked at Pasha. He nodded.

“Pasha clearly knows, because well, I asked him to help me with it. It’s deeply personal to me and I need all of your support, especially you, Sebastian James.”

Shit.

She was using my middle name. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I was going to hate whatever the fuck it was. A tight pressure in my head cut through the initial irritation. Guilt followed right behind it, heavier and harder to ignore.

Stark vulnerability shone through the screen as I took in her face. I leaned back, dragging a hand down my jaw before exhaling, the sound rougher than I intended.

“Just say it, Bella.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed, her fingers curling briefly into the fabric of her shirt before she forced them still.

“Connecticut is only a few hours away from where we are right now.” She paused, and her eyes lifted. “I’m going back,” another pause, this one longer, “I’m going to revisit the castle where the girls and I lived for two years.”

Confusion rushed through me, heart pumping faster by the second. My lungs forgot how to work. The silence that followed wasn’t quiet—it was suffocating. It pressed in from all sides until the only thing breaking it was the sound of my ragged breathing as it filled the room.

Immediately I was eighteen, the smell of stale alcohol clinging to me, thick in the back of my throat. Sunlight cut through the blinds at the King’s house. I’d overslept. Partied too hard the night before with Alek.

The crashing realization that I’d let Isabella down. And then later in the day as I waited for her after school. The confusion when she wasn’t there. The relief when they told me she had stayed home sick that day.

Then it was walking through the door, calling her name so I could apologize. The fear that came next wasn’t something I’d ever forgotten. The panic. The fake phone call uncovered and the subsequent call to the police.

It was reliving when Vanya ran away, except Isabella wasn’t the type. She was only ten years old at the time. I squeezed my eyes shut, jaw locking as the rest followed. The search. The hours that turned into days. The look on my father’s face. My mother crumbling before me and the sound of her breaking.

The hollow, suffocating weight of it settling in, piece by piece. All of it traced back to one thing.

Me. I failed the two most important girls in my life.