His eyes narrow slightly. “Every standard matters. Every detail. That’s how we survive.”
“We?” I repeat. “Or just you?”
Something shifts in his expression then—a tightening around the eyes, a hardness that wasn’t there before. I’ve hit a nerve.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe not,” I concede. “But I know what trauma looks like when it’s wearing patent leather shoes and managing everyone’s time like a tiny dictator.”
He steps closer, suddenly enough that I have to force myself not to back away. I can feel the heat radiating from him, see the faint scar that traces along his jawline.
“Be careful, Isabella.”
“Of what? Caring about your daughter’s emotional well-being?”
“Of assuming you understand anything about how she was raised.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “I understand more than you think. I was her once.”
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, curiosity, I can’t tell. But he doesn’t back down.
“And who raised you?” he asks, his voice deceptively soft. “What made you so certain you know what’s best for my child?”
The question catches me off guard. It’s too personal, too close to old wounds I’ve bandaged with sarcasm and ambition.
I swallow, the words catching in my throat. For a moment, I consider brushing it off, deflecting with a joke or a shrug. But the look in his eyes holds me there, frozen in place.
“After my parents died,” I say finally, my voice steadier than I feel, “my aunt and uncle took us in. People who thought fear was the same as respect. People who thought control was love.”
He studies me for a long moment, like he’s reading something written in invisible ink across my face. Then, without warning, he reaches out and presses a panel in the wall.
A hidden door slides open, revealing a staircase I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise.
“This way,” he says. “It’s faster.”
I stare at the passageway. “You have secret tunnels in your house? Of course you do.”
“Not tunnels. Just efficient routes.”
“For what? Midnight escapes? Emergency assassinations?”
His mouth quirks. “Monday dinner.”
I follow him down the staircase, which spirals elegantly through what must be the center of the house. The walls are lined with more art—this collection softer somehow, landscapesand seascapes that seem at odds with the man leading me through them.
“My father collected these,” he says, noticing my gaze lingering on a particularly beautiful painting of the Russian coastline. “Before everything went to shit.”
It’s the first personal detail he’s offered without being interrogated, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“It’s beautiful,” I say simply.
“It’s a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That beauty doesn’t last.” He continues down the stairs without looking back to see if I follow.
We emerge into a kitchen that looks like it was designed by someone who worships both food and power in equal measure. Everything gleams—black marble, brushed gold fixtures, massive appliances. Wide windows frame a view of the pool stretching toward the ocean like a mirror to another world.
