I check the time. Just past four-thirty.
She should be with her siblings now.
Timur clears his throat, eyes still on his phone. “Boss, I dug deeper into the Mikhailov situation.”
I tilt my head.
“Irina’s family is circling the drain. Three failed ventures in two years. Moscow holdings defaulted. And the yacht? Seized. Last month.”
Arseny’s eyebrows lift. “Mikhailov? Broke? That’s like saying Siberia’s cozy.”
“Not bankrupt,” Timur says. “But not liquid. He’s desperate.”
Alexei Mikhailov. The man who handed me his daughter like a treaty and then blamed me when she vanished. I didn’t look for her. Didn’t ask questions.
But now?
Now he’s bleeding money and circling the drain.
And Irina—after nine years of silence—justhappensto resurface?
No such thing as coincidence. Not in this world.
“What are the odds that Irina shows up just as her father’s empire starts to collapse?” I ask, more to myself than anyone else.
Arseny exhales smoke. “Odds don’t matter. Motive does.”
The elevator dings. We step into the lobby, glass doors reflecting the convoy outside.
My phone buzzes.
Viktor.
Update: Mrs. Belov’s not at the estate. Café in downtown Carmel. She’s with Elena Miller. No tail. Security’s on standby.
Of course she is.
Elena Miller—Bella’s emotional support system in a crop top. I had her file pulled the second the ink dried on the marriage license.
Blood type: O negative. Preferred activities: hot yoga and men with boundary issues. Recent Amazon orders: lavender body oil, a rose quartz yoni wand, and a three-pack of edible underwear.
Julian’s school ID scans at 3:12 every day. Lila’s TikTok settings are private, but not her group chat screenshots. Bella’s world? Logged. Indexed. Tagged.
She thinks I don’t know her.
She thinksthisis freedom.
My screen lights up again.
Unknown number. One missed call. No voicemail. No ID.
Not spam.
One ping. No bounce. No trace.
A burner.
Someone just reached for my wife.
