After dinner, Margot and Luc retire. Margot to her old bedroom upstairs, Luc to the guest house out back. Isabella stands to help with dishes, but I wave her off.
"Go. Get some air. The back gallery's nice this time of night."
She studies me for a moment, then nods and disappears through the French doors.
I clean up methodically, stack dishes, wipe down the table, put everything back exactly where Maman kept it. Muscle memory, doing this by rote while my mind works through variables and calculates risks.
When I finish, Isabella's on the back gallery, leaning against the railing, looking out over the gardens. Magnolias bloom white in the darkness, their scent thick and sweet on the night air. Humidity wraps everything, making the air feel alive, pressing close.
I stop behind her, close enough to catch her scent under the magnolias. She doesn't turn, but her shoulders shift slightly—awareness of my presence.
This has been building since Prague. Since Vienna. Since every moment in between when professional distance became harder to maintain.
"We need to talk," I say quietly.
She turns, moonlight catching her features. "About what?"
"About what's happening between us."
For a moment, she doesn't respond. Then: "I wondered when you'd address it."
"Addressing it now." I step closer, deliberately invade her space. Testing. "This crosses every professional line. You're an asset under my protection. Getting involved is a tactical liability."
"And yet here we are." She doesn't back away. "Having this conversation."
"Here we are." Agreement settles between us. "So let's be clear about parameters before this goes any further."
"Parameters." A smile tugs at her mouth. "How very tactical."
"I'm a tactical person, Isabella. Everything with me is about control, about maintaining operational security, about not making mistakes that get people killed." I pause, choose my words carefully. "That doesn't change just because I want you."
The admission hangs between us. She doesn't look surprised.
"When were you last tested?"
"Recently. Clean."
"Same." She holds my gaze. "And I have an IUD."
"Good."
The clinical efficiency of it does something to me. No coyness, no pretense. Just facts delivered with the same precision she applies to everything else. We're both adults, both capable of managing consequences.
"We acknowledge this is a terrible idea professionally," I say.
"Terrible," she echoes. "But inevitable."
I study her in the moonlight, this woman who's upended my operational priorities and invaded my thoughts at the worst possible time. "I need you to understand something about me."
"Tell me."
"I need control. In everything. In operations, in tactical decisions, in..." I pause, find the words. "In this. Whatever this becomes. That's not going to change, Isabella. That's who I am."
She's quiet for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is steady, certain. "What if I want you to have it?"
The words hit harder than they should. "You don't know what you're saying."
"Don't I?" She steps closer, eliminates the distance between us. "I've spent my career around men who took control because they assumed it was theirs by right. You're different. You take it because you've earned it, because people trust you to make the right calls when everything's going sideways. I've watched you operate, Remy. I know exactly what I'm saying."
