“Miss Isabelle.” His face is carefully neutral. “Your mother wasn’t expecting you.”
“That’s the point.” I step past him into the foyer, marble and brass and the smell of expensive flowers. “Where is she?”
“The drawing room. But Miss, perhaps you should call first?—”
“Thanks, Charles.” I’m already moving, heels clicking on marble, following the path to Mother’s favorite room.
She’s exactly where I expect her—perched on that ivory settee, wearing cream Chanel and pearls, ash-blonde hair perfect, makeup flawless. She looks like she’s about to host a tea party, not fight a legal war with her daughter.
She glances up when I enter. “Isabelle. How unexpected. I assume you’re here about the competency hearing.”
“I’m here to give you one last chance to withdraw the motion. One chance to walk away from this before I destroy everything you’ve built.”
Her laugh is cold. “Destroy me? Darling, you’re the one facing a psychiatric evaluation tomorrow. I’m simply concerned about your well-being. Any loving mother would be.”
“Any loving mother wouldn’t have conspired to murder her husband. Any loving mother wouldn’t have a fifteen-year affair with her brother-in-law. Any loving mother wouldn’t be helping that same man try to kill her daughter.”
“Careful, Isabelle.”
“Need I remind you of our last conversation? The one where you confessed to conspiracy and murder. The one where you admitted to the affair. You know that I have the full recording.”
“Isabelle—”
“Here’s what’s going to happen. You withdraw the competency motion. Today. You call your lawyers, tell them you’ve reconsidered, that you were acting out of grief or fear or whatever lie you want to spin. And then you disappear. No more legal games. No more attempts to control my inheritance.”
“If you still didn’t report me, I doubt you ever will. You’re bluffing.”
“Am I? One click and the recording goes toThe Times, thePost, every society blog that’s been covering the Davenport family drama. Your reputation—the only thing you’ve ever actuallycared about—burns in about thirty seconds. Back off or I burn you. Your choice.”
“If I tell you about the gala, will you delete the recording?”
“That depends. What’s Matthew’s plan?”
“I don’t know the details. He doesn’t tell me everything anymore. But he’s been meeting with men from Chicago. Expensive men. The kind who don’t fail. Please. Whatever’s between us, whatever I’ve done—you’re still my daughter. Don’t go to that gala. Let Matthew have the company. Let him win. Just stay alive.”
The concern sounds genuine. Almost convincing.
Almost.
“You don’t get to play concerned mother now.” I turn toward the door. “Withdraw the motion by end of business today. Or I release everything and let the courts handle you both.”
“Isabelle—”
“Oh, and Mother?” I glance back. “Tell Matthew I’m coming. Tell him The Wolf’s wife doesn’t run from fights. She finishes them.”
I walk out, leaving her standing alone in that perfect drawing room, surrounded by perfect things that can’t hide the rot underneath.
Charles is waiting in the foyer. He hands me my coat without a word, but his eyes hold something like approval.
“Your father would be proud, Miss.” His voice is soft, meant only for me.
I swallow hard, nodding once, and step out into the grey morning light.
Sergei’s out of the car before I reach it, reading my expression with frightening accuracy. “You okay?”
“She tried to warn me off the gala. Said Matthew’s hired Chicago professionals. Real killers.” I slide into the passenger seat, suddenly exhausted. “She almost sounded like she cared.”
“She cares about covering her ass.” He starts the engine, pulling away from the townhouse. “If you die at the gala, all that evidence points straight back to her. She needs you alive to maintain plausible deniability.”
