"Be reasonable?—"
"I said no." My voice could cut glass. "I'm not marrying him. I'm not marrying anyone you pick. I'm not a piece of property to be traded to whatever man makes you the best offer."
"Isabelle." Cal stands, moving toward me with his hands raised like I'm a spooked horse. "I understand that you're upset. But if you'd just give me a chance to show you?—"
"Touch me, and I'll end you."
He stops. Something ugly flashes in his eyes. The real man behind the polished mask.
Then he smiles again, and it's worse.
"Your father always said you had spirit." He straightens his cuffs. "I'll enjoy taming it."
Taming it.
I'm going to burn them all.
"The clause specifies a legal marriage." Bernard's voice wavers. "It doesn't require?—"
"Thank you, Bernard." Mother stands, signaling the end of the discussion with the authority of a dictator dismissing parliament. "Isabelle, you have three months to find a suitable alternative. If you can't, Cal's offer stands. I suggest you start being realistic about your options."
I'm moving before she finishes. Out the door, down the hall, past priceless paintings and generations of Davenport ancestors, who probably arranged marriages just like this one.
"Isabelle." Matthew appears at my elbow, his hand closing around my upper arm. Again. "Wait?—"
I wrench free. "Don't touch me."
"I understand that you're upset." His voice drops, those cold eyes hardening into something that looks like a threat. "But consider your position carefully. You're not equipped to run Davenport Holdings alone. You need someone with experience, with connections. Cal can provide that."
"I'll find my own husband."
"Will you?" His smile turns sharp. "Three months isn't long. And the board will scrutinize any choice you make. They'll require someone with substance. Someone who can't be dismissed."
I stare at him. At this man who's been circling my family for twenty years, waiting for exactly this moment.
"You did this." The words come out quiet. Certain. "The clause. Somehow you convinced Dad?—"
"Your father made his own choices." Matthew's mask doesn't slip. "I'm simply trying to help you make yours."
I turn my back on him and walk out the door.
Sergei's waitingby the car.
Of course he is.
The evening air hits my face like a slap, cold and sharp and smelling like rain. I'm shaking. Rage or fear or some unholy combination that's going to destroy me if I don't channel it somewhere.
"Take me home."
He opens the door without a word. I slide into the back seat. He follows.
Silence fills the space between us as the car pulls away from my mother's townhouse, away from the vultures and their schemes, away from the life I used to think I understood.
Three months.
Three months to find a husband or lose everything my father built.
My mother arranged a marriage to Cal Reznick within days of Dad's death. Too convenient. Too calculated. And the look in her eyes at the will reading...
