Ruslan.
Harris.
And my father — Vasquez.
My pulse spiked instantly.
Ruslan sat in a large armchair.
His posture relaxed.
Deceptively casual.
His prison pallor had faded slightly — freedom restoring color to his skin.
But his eyes...
They were sharp.
Observing. Calculating.
Harris sat across from him on the sectional sofa.
Impeccable suit. Blond hair styled perfectly.
His smile — the same charming mask he used years ago when he had tried to secure my future through political alliances and inheritance deals.
He looked like someone who belonged in corporate power circles.
Not in criminal discussions.
My gaze shifted.
My father.
Vasquez.
His fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest.
Expression controlled.
Cold.
He looked at me as if I were a strategic asset — not a daughter.
My heart pounded harder.
How?
How was Ruslan here?
He had been in prison.
Chained.
Under surveillance.
What legal loophole had freed him?
