"Wouldn't she? Eight-year-olds are smarter than you think. Especially ones raised by a man who taught her to read people. She knows you're using her. Kids always know."
"He killed a man at a charity luncheon." Elena repeats it like a mantra, but there's less conviction now. Like she's reciting a script someone else wrote. "In front of Manhattan's elite. That's not stable behavior?—"
"That man had a knife to my throat." I let my voice go cold. Flat. The way Sergei sounds when he's explaining violence like it's physics. "Sergei had two seconds to decide: Let me die or neutralize the threat. He chose me. That's not instability. That's love. But I guess you wouldn't recognize that, would you?"
Direct hit. Elena's jaw works like she's chewing glass.
"You think you're different? Special?" She leans forward, and I can smell her perfume—something French and expensive that probably has a waiting list. "You're just another woman who thinks she can fix him. I tried for five years. You know what I got? Nightmares. Silences. A man so broken, he can't tell the difference between protecting and controlling."
"There's a difference between broken and dangerous. Sergei's dangerous. But he'd never hurt his family. Never use his daughter as a weapon in some petty war."
"Petty." She laughs, sharp and brittle. "You think protecting my child is petty?"
"I think funding a custody battle with Matthew Ashford's money is suspicious as fuck."
The color drains from her face. Fast. Like I've pulled a plug somewhere vital.
"I don't know what you're?—"
"Save it." I watch her carefully, cataloguing every micro-expression. The flicker of her eyes. The way her hand tightenson the doorframe. "I know Matthew's been paying your legal fees. I know you've been meeting with him. What I don't know is whether you're stupid enough to think he's doing it out of the goodness of his heart."
"Matthew is a family friend. He offered to help when he heard about the custody dispute?—"
"Matthew is a murderer who's been trying to kill me for weeks." The words come out harder than I intend. "And if you're taking his money, Elena, you're either complicit or you're being used. Either way, you should be very, very careful about which side you're standing on when this all comes crashing down."
She's quiet for a beat. Two. The mask slipping just enough that I see something underneath that might be fear.
Good.
"When he hurts you," she says finally, voice low and venomous, "and he will—they always do—don't come crying to me."
"If Sergei wanted to hurt me, I'd already be dead. But thanks for the concern." I step back, creating distance before I do something I'll regret. "Really warms my heart."
"Get off my property."
"Gladly. But first—Mila's math workbook. Sergei said she forgot it. She needs it for school."
Elena's eyes narrow. For a second, I think she's going to refuse out of pure spite. Then she turns, disappearing into the house, leaving the door open like a dare.
I don't take it. Don't step inside. Don't give her ammunition for later.
Thirty seconds pass. A minute. I'm starting to think she's gone to call the police when she reappears, workbook in hand. She shoves it at my chest hard enough to make me step back.
"Take it. And don't come back."
"Wasn't planning on it." I tuck the workbook under my arm. "Your house smells like disappointment anyway."
The door slams hard enough to rattle the frame.
I stand there on her stupid perfect steps—probably imported Italian marble, breathing through the adrenaline crash.
Three beats to steady myself.
Five to remember why I came here.
Seven to realize I just lied to a woman about her daughter to win an argument, and I don't even feel bad about it.
Marco has the car door open when I reach the curb. Sees my face. Doesn't ask questions, just like the professional he is.
