For a long moment, Matthew doesn’t move. Just stares at me with those cold, dead eyes that used to make me nervous. Now they just make me angry.
“You think you’ve won,” he says quietly. “But you’re just like me, Isabelle. Ruthless. Willing to destroy anyone in your path. Your father would be ashamed.”
“My father would be alive if you hadn’t murdered him.” I pick up my bag, ready to leave. “The difference between us, Uncle Matthew, is I destroy people who deserve it. You just destroy people who trust you.”
That’s when he snaps.
Matthew lunges across the table. His hand reach for my throat. It’s clumsy, desperate—the move of a man with nothing left to lose. But before his fingers make contact, Sergei intercepts.
The violence is surgical. Sergei catches Matthew’s wrist mid-grab. He twists it, then slams him face-first into the mahogany table. The sound of breaking cartilage echoes through the boardroom—Matthew’s nose shattering on impact. Blood sprays across polished wood and scattered papers.
Cal Reznick jumps up, reaching for something in his jacket. Another gun.How many weapons are in this damn boardroom?
Sergei moves like liquid death. He releases Matthew, pivots, and closes the distance to Cal in two strides. One hand locks around Cal’s wrist before the gun clears his jacket. The other delivers a precise strike to Cal’s solar plexus that drops him gasping.
The gun clatters to the floor. Sergei kicks it away and turns back to Matthew, who’s struggling to rise, blood pouring from his ruined nose.
“Stay down,” Sergei advises. “Or I’ll put you down permanently.”
Matthew spits blood. “You’re dead, Orlov. Both of you. This isn’t over?—”
Sergei’s boot connects with Matthew’s ribs. Not hard enough to break anything, but enough to shut him up. “It’s over when my wife says it’s over.”
“This is a setup,” Matthew snarls, blood dripping onto his expensive shirt. “You orchestrated this whole thing?—”
“I orchestrated justice.” I step closer, close enough to see the rage and fear warring in his eyes. “Welcome to the first part of consequences, Uncle Matthew.”
Matthew’s security trio comes, helping him off the floor. The four of them, along with Cal, make their escape in an attempt to conserve a slimmer of dignity. It doesn’t work at all, but that’s not my problem.
The boardroom erupts in chaos—members talking over each other, phones coming out, Wesley trying to restore order.
Sergei’s hand finds the small of my back. “You okay?”
“Better than okay.” I turn to face him, adrenaline singing through my veins. His grey eyes are storm clouds, dangerous and beautiful, and there’s blood on his knuckles from where he connected with Cal’s face.He’s magnificent.
“That was—” I search for words. “Thank you.”
“He tried to touch you.” His jaw tightens. “No one touches you.”
Heat floods my body, inappropriate and undeniable. We’re standing in a boardroom that smells like blood and expensive cologne, surrounded by witnesses and chaos, and all I want to do is pull him into the nearest empty office and?—
“Miss Davenport!” Jackson Lawson appears at my elbow; face flushed with excitement or shock. “That was... extraordinary. Your father would be proud.”
Would he?The question sits heavily in my chest, but I push it down. Deal with guilt later. Right now, I have a company to secure.
“I need a formal vote,” I tell the remaining board members. “All in favor of maintaining current ownership structure—meaning I retain controlling shares—say aye.”
A chorus of ayes. Even the members who were probably taking Matthew’s bribes know when to switch sides.
“Motion passes.” I collect my bag, suddenly exhausted. “We’ll reconvene next week to discuss actual company business. You know, the legal kind that doesn’t involve attempted murder.”
Wesley catches my arm as we head for the door. “The media’s already here. Someone called them—probably Matthew on his way out, trying to make this look like a hostile takeover turned violent.”
“Let them.” I glance at Sergei, who’s calmly adjusting his jacket like he didn’t just hospitalize two men. “I’m done hiding what we are.”
Outside the building, cameras flash like strobe lights. Reporters swarm us. They thrust their microphones forward. Their voices overlap as they throw their questions at us:
“Miss Davenport, is it true your uncle tried to kill you?”
