"If Izzy wants to." I look at my wife, standing in the doorway, like she's not sure she's allowed to enter.
"I'd love to." Izzy moves to sit on the edge of Mila's bed, and my daughter immediately curls into her side, like she's always been there.
I settle into the chair by the window, watching them. Izzy's voice is soft as she reads about dragons and princesses, doing different voices for each character that make Mila giggle. My daughter's suspicious edge has melted entirely, replaced by the open trust of a child who's decided you're safe.
By the third book, Mila's eyes are drooping. By the fourth, she's asleep, head pillowed on Izzy's shoulder.
Izzy looks up, meeting my gaze across the dimly lit room.
I stand, moving to carefully extract Mila from Izzy's lap. She doesn't wake, just mumbles incoherently and burrows deeper into her pillow as I tuck the blankets around her. I press a kiss to her forehead, breathing in the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo.
"Goodnight,ptichka," I whisper.
Izzy's already at the door when I turn. She's watching me with eyes that see too much, and her hand finds mine as we step into the hallway. Her fingers thread through mine, the touch grounding.
We don't speak as we head downstairs. In the living room, I light the candle on the mantel, the same vanilla and bergamot scent that Isabelle said was her father's favorite. The flame catches, small and defiant.
Richard Davenport's lighter sits beside it, gold and scorched. Izzy's left it out like a talisman, a reminder of what we're fighting for.
I stare at the flickering flame and think about how easily this could all burn down. Mila's trust. Izzy's safety. The fragile thing building between us that feels too real to be fake.
"Thank you," Izzy says softly. She's standing beside me now. "For today. For letting me in."
"You're good with her. She likes you."
"I like her, too." She turns to face me fully, and the candlelight paints gold across her features. "She's easy to love."
The words hang between us. Easy to love. She's talking about Mila, but the way she's looking at me makes my hands tighten.
"Don't," I say quietly.
"Don't what?"
"Get attached." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "To her. To this."
"Too late." She steps closer, eliminating the space between us. "I'm already attached. To both of you."
Ice floods my veins. Not the cold of danger but the cold of fear, the kind that comes from having something precious and knowing you'll lose it.
"This isn't real, Isabelle."
"Feels pretty real to me." Her hand finds my chest, palm pressing against my heartbeat. "Feels real when she calls me by name. When you look at me like you did at breakfast. When we pretend we're a family and it doesn't feel like pretending anymore."
I capture her wrist, but don't pull her hand away. "You're here for your inheritance."
"I was." Her blue eyes hold mine, unwavering. "Now I'm here because I want to be."
The candle flickers. Shadows dance across the walls. And I stand there holding my fake wife's wrist while my daughter sleeps upstairs, and everything I've built threatens to crumble because I'm falling for the wrong woman at the worst possible time.
"You should go to bed," I tell her, releasing her wrist.
"Come with me."
"Isabelle—"
"Just to sleep." She steps back, breaking the moment. "Like last night. Two broken people trying not to have nightmares."
I should say no. Should maintain distance, keep this professional, remember this arrangement has an expiration date.
