“She’s in the interrogation room,” Demyan says.
I don’t break stride. Without a word, I continue inside the house and down the hall toward the lower level.
I enter the interrogation room, where Noelle is already seated, handcuffed to a steel chair. The restraint is more for intimidation than necessity—I know she can’t run. She’s my employee, and she knows my reputation well enough not to dare make that mistake.
Still, she pulls against the cuffs, testing them, and the motion makes her body shift against the shapeless clothes. Against my better judgment, my gaze lowers.
What I see makes my jaw tighten. Her clothes are far too big, meant to hide rather than reveal, yet they can’t disguise the truth. Her curves are full, overflowing, the kind of body made to tempt a man into forgetting reason. Breasts that strain subtly against the fabric, a waist that gives way to hips meant for a man’s hands.
There’s softness there, richness, an unstudied allure that demands attention even as she sits shackled in fear. She’s toomuchwoman for a flimsy fabric to disguise. Too much woman for a man like me to ignore.
My eyes linger for only a second too long before I drag them back up, cursing myself inwardly. This isn’t what I came here for. I don’t look at women this way—not employees, notsuspects, and certainly not the ones who might already be condemned.
Yet my body betrays me, heat tightening low, the reaction unwelcome and unwanted. She shifts again, restless, and I have to harden my expression, lock every trace of it away.
She can’t know the way my body reacts. She can’t know how close I am to imagining her bound to that chair for reasons that have nothing to do with interrogation.
“Release me now,” she grits, her voice hard. “I didn’t do it.”
I give a small nod. Demyan understands instantly. He drops a stack of files onto the table with a loud slap that makes her flinch, then steps out, closing the door behind him.
Her wide eyes flick down at the papers, then back up at me. “What is this?” she barks, her chin lifting, defiance burning in her glare.
Fire. That glare. It sparks hotter than it should, licking at the restraint I hold tight inside me.
I lean back slightly, voice even, cold. “Evidence. I’ve reviewed it all. And what I see…” I let the silence stretch, savoring the tension building in the room, “…are nothing but red flags.”
Her breath hitches, but I don’t stop.
“Your name appears on multiple bank transfers, every one of them signed in your hand. Then there’s your connection to Anton. And, of course, the most convenient part—the timing of your sudden relocation to Chicago, right before the scandal blew up.”
I lean forward now, letting my gaze cut into hers, my tone dropping like a blade. “All of it paints the same picture, Noelle. Guilt.”
Her lips part, but instead of breaking, her voice comes out steady. “This is nothing but a coincidence. A misunderstanding. I don’t know anything about those transfers.”
A dry laugh slips from me, humorless. “I don’t believe in coincidences. I believe in facts. Cold, hard facts. And every one of them points to you.”
She lifts her chin higher, her handcuffed wrists clinking as she shifts. “Then believe whatever the hell you want,” she fires back. “Because I’m innocent.”
Her reaction is almost jarring. She isn’t trembling or pleading. Instead, she leans back against the chair as if I’m the one wasting her time, her eyes narrowing, daring me to push harder.
The defiance shouldn’t matter, but it slides under my skin, rattling something I don’t let people touch. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t beg. She stares at me like she’s already judged me and found me wanting.
Heat curls low again, unwelcome, because God help me—her fire doesn’t just anger me. It tempts me.
“I’ve said I don’t know anything about the money and drilling me about it would not change my words,” she adds. “Anton had access to my account while we were still together. Before I left, I trusted him to shut it down. I forgot all about it. This”—she lifts her cuffed wrists slightly—“all of this is his doing, not mine.”
Her words hang in the air, desperate but sharp, like she’s clinging to them with both hands.
I let the silence stretch, watching her squirm, then I approach, just enough for her to feel the weight of my presence. “Your ex is already in custody. And trust me, his fate is far worse than this little interrogation.” My voice drops colder. “If you want his sentence to ease, even slightly, you’d better start telling me the truth now.”
To my surprise, she chuckles. The sound isn’t nervous—it’s dark, bitter, almost mocking. She leans forward on the table, dragging the chain of her cuffs with her, and glares at me like I’m the fool here.
“You think I give a single fuck about Anton?” Her lips curl, not in fear but in something like disgust. “I left him because of his temper, his control, the way he thought he owned me. I’m not saying this to protect him. I hope he rots in whatever hole you’ve thrown him in. Hell, I hope he dies slow. Painful.”
Her eyes flash, and for a moment, she looks less like a prisoner and more like fire trapped in a body too small to contain it.
My jaw tightens. I hadn’t expected this. Most people beg. Most break. She…spits venom.
