Page 90 of Reaper's Desire

I know she's right. But it doesn't stop me from wanting to cross the room, pull her into my arms, and tell her that last night meant something. That she means something.

But she's made it clear she doesn't want to hear it. And because I'm not sure I could articulate it even if she did.

So I just nod and push myself out of bed, ignoring the way my body protests the movement. "I'll shower and pack. We'll leave in thirty minutes."

She turns back to her bag without responding, and I head to the bathroom, closing the door behind me harder than necessary.

The face that stares back at me from the mirror looks haggard. There are dark circles under my eyes and stubble covering my jaw. I look like a man who's been through hell and isn't sure he's going to make it out the other side.

I turn on the shower and step under the hot spray, letting it wash away the evidence of last night. But it can't wash away the memory—the taste of her, the sound of her pleasure, the way my body responded to hers.

She's unmade me—completely and utterly unmade me. And now she's pulling away, protecting herself from whatever this is between us. I can't blame her. I understand the impulse. But it doesn't make it any easier to accept.

I finish showering and dress quickly. By the time I emerge from the bathroom, Isabelle is sitting on the edge of the bed, her bag at her feet and her phone in her hands.

She looks up when I enter, and for just a moment, I see something flicker in her eyes. "Ready?" she asks.

"Ready," I confirm.

And just like that, we're back to being what we were before last night, allies against a common enemy. Two people trying to stay alive long enough to end this nightmare.

Nothing more.

25

ISABELLE

The apartment smells exactly the way I remember it—expensive perfume layered over furniture polish, and the faint scent of fresh flowers that Vivienne insists on having delivered twice a week. I used to not mind it, but now, coming back here knowing everything I do, it makes my stomach turn.

It's exactly as I left it weeks ago—elegant and pristine, all cream-colored furniture and tasteful art on the walls, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Everything is perfectly arranged, curated, and wildly expensive. It's the kind of space that appears in architectural magazines.

It's also the home of a woman who tried to have me killed.

Vivienne is in the living room when we enter, sitting on the ivory sofa with a glass of wine in her hand, her legs crossed elegantly at the ankle. She's wearing a silk blouse in pale blue and tailored pants, her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek chignon. She looks up when she hears us, and for just a moment, her face registers pure shock.

"Isabelle." Her voice is remarkably calm. "I wasn't expecting you."

It takes everything in me to keep mine from shaking. "I know. We need to talk."

Vivienne's eyes flick to Julian, taking him in. "And who is this?" she asks, her tone dismissive.

"Someone who's been keeping me alive. While you've been trying to have me killed."

The words hang in the air between us. For a moment, Vivienne doesn't react. Then she sets her wine glass down on the coffee table with deliberate care and stands, smoothing her hands over her pants.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Her voice is ice. "If this is some kind of joke, Isabelle, it's in very poor taste."

"It's not a joke." I move further into the room, Julian a silent shadow at my side. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, but I force myself to keep my voice steady. "I know about the money, Vivienne. The withdrawals. The accounts you've been draining. The millions you've spent that weren't yours to spend."

Something flickers across her face, but it's gone so quickly I almost miss it. Her expression settles back into cold disdain.

"You're being ridiculous. Your father handles all the financial matters. If you have concerns about the family accounts, you should take them up with him."

"My father doesn't know what you've been doing." I take another step closer. "He doesn't know you've been stealing from him. From me. He doesn't know you've spent recklessly and that you're desperate enough to have me killed so you can access my trust fund."

"That's absurd." Vivienne's voice rises slightly, the first crack in her composure. "You sound paranoid, Isabelle. Unhinged. Perhaps you should see someone about that."

"I have proof." Julian's voice cuts through the room. He moves forward, pulling a folder from inside his jacket andsetting it on the coffee table. "Bank transfers. Withdrawal records. Connections to the intermediary broker who placed the contract. Everything we need to prove you ordered a hit on your stepdaughter."