But that’s not why I want to go back.
I want to see her.
Not the kid.Her.
I should let it go. Should bury the instinct. Shove it down like I’ve done with every other weakness since I was 15, and my father taught me exactly what loving something too much costs.
But I check the tracker, anyway.
The little blue dot glows.
Her phone. My system.
Blackwood Academy – Monterey, California.
Her.
And the kids.
Julian. Lila.
I didn’t ask for them. Didn’t plan for them. But they came with her like shadows she refuses to leave behind.
The way her blue eyes lock in when she talks about them—focused, edged, like she’s already run the worst-case scenarios in her head. Like she’d burn the world down before letting anything touch them.
She’s not their mother—but fuck, she may as well be.
Most people her age are still trying to find themselves on wellness retreats or TikTok. Bella’s playing provider, therapist, and estate defender, all while running a multimillion-dollar sales team Ithrewat her with zero warning.
And she’s handling it.
Not flawlessly. But better than most men I’ve broken bread—and bones—with.
She has no idea I see it. That Iwatchit. Quietly. Every move. Every fire she puts out without asking for help. Every meeting she walks into like she belongs, even when the old guard wants her to fail.
There’s strength in her that no one taught her to wield.
And maybe that’s what makes it so fucking dangerous.
“Boss.” Timur’s voice slices through the quiet.
He doesn’t use my name unless it matters.
I sit up.
He turns the tablet toward me without a word.
It’s a surveillance shot. Grainy. Zoomed in. Someone tried to mask the image—blurred edges, bad cropping, timestamp cut off.
But I know the background.
I know the building.
My wedding.
Church doors. Flower arrangements. A blur of Bella’s veil trailing behind her in the distance. And just off-center—partially obscured by a tree, head ducked low under oversized sunglasses and a scarf—
Irina.
