“Mr. Orlov, do you have any comment on your ex-wife’s murder?”
“How do you respond to allegations you’re unfit?—”
“Is it true your current wife is Isabelle Davenport, the heiress?—”
I keep walking, one hand on Mila’s shoulder, steering her through the chaos. Andrei and his men form a protective wall, shoving cameras back, creating space. The questions blur into white noise until we burst through the courthouse doors.
And there she is.
Isabelle leans against my SUV, all black leather and deadly elegance. She’s wearing pants that should be illegal, heels that add three inches, and an expensive jacket. Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders, catching weak sunlight, and when her blue eyes find mine across fifty feet of concrete, everything else disappears.
My soul and heart. Mine.
The possessive thought hits like a freight train. Not the fake wife playing house for appearances. Mine. The woman who kills for my daughter. Who stands beside me in courtrooms and war zones without flinching. Who’s walking into danger tonight because burning down her family’s empire matters more than safety.
She straightens when she sees us, and her face transforms. That polished Davenport mask cracks, revealing raw emotion. Relief. Joy. Love that we only started to name, but it’s already written in every line of her body.
Mila breaks free from my grip, running toward Izzy with the kind of trust that makes my throat tight. “Izzy! We won! Papa won!”
Izzy catches her, lifting her despite the heels and impractical outfit, spinning once before setting her down. “I know, sweetheart. I told you we would. Your papa’s very persuasive when he wants to be.”
“Does this mean you’re really my mom now?” Mila’s voice is small. Hopeful. Destroying us both.
Izzy’s eyes find mine over Mila’s head, asking permission for something we haven’t discussed. Something permanent. I nod once, and watch her smile—genuine, warm, nothing like the ice princess Manhattan thinks she is.
“If you want me to be,” Izzy says carefully, crouching to Mila’s level. “I’m not trying to replace your mama. But I’m here. I’m staying. And I love you like you’re mine. So if you want to call me Mom, or Izzy, or something else entirely, that’s your choice. Okay?”
“Okay.” Mila throws her arms around Izzy’s neck. “I want to call you Mom. Is that weird?”
“Not weird.” Izzy’s voice cracks slightly. “Perfect, actually.”
I close the distance between us. One hand finds Izzy’s shoulder, the other rests on Mila’s back. The three of us form a tight circle on the courthouse steps, cameras flashing, reporters shouting,the world continuing around us while we exist in this pocket of quiet certainty.
Family.
Not fake. Not temporary. Not a business arrangement that got complicated.
Family.
Izzy rises, still holding Mila’s hand, and her free hand finds mine. Her fingers thread through mine with practiced ease, and the simple touch grounds me. Reminds me why tonight matters. Why we’re walking into that gala, knowing Matthew’s hired professionals to end us.
Because this—right here—is worth protecting.
“We should celebrate,” Izzy says, voice steadier now. “Ice cream? Coney Island? Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
“Can we go to the park?” Mila bounces slightly. “The one with the big swings?”
“Prospect Park. We’ll hit the carousel, get hot dogs, tire you out completely.”
Mila grins. “And then tonight you and Mom go to your fancy party?”
“Something like that.” Izzy’s thumb traces circles on my palm, the touch intimate and grounding.
I guide them toward the SUV, hyperaware of the cameras still tracking our movement. Tomorrow’s headlines will scream about The Wolf and his heiress wife, about violence and money and dangerous marriages. Let them. “Come on. We’ve got six hours before we need to get ready. Let’s make them count.”
Prospect Park is crowdedfor a Wednesday afternoon—parents with strollers, teenagers skipping school, the usual collection of humans pretending November isn’t trying to freeze them solid. Mila runs ahead toward the playground, and Izzy’s hand tightens on mine.
“You okay?” Her voice is soft. Meant only for me.
