Then she exhales sharply.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Just some guy. Russian, I think? Asked a lot of questions.”
“What questions?”
“About my job. My family.” Her eyes flash. “About whether I worked at clubs downtown.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
Of course, they did.
I keep my expression neutral, but the pieces are already locking into place in my head. Pavlov men. Testing boundaries. Pushing quietly before the real move begins.
And Izzy is already on their radar.
I step closer. “You’re not walking home alone anymore.”
Her head snaps up. “What?”
“You won’t take public transport. You won’t change Noah’s routine. And if anyone asks questions about you or your son, you call me.”
The authority in my voice comes out before I can soften it.
Her eyes flare.
“You don’t get to order me around.”
“I’m not asking.”
That only makes her angrier.
“And why exactly should I listen to you?” she demands. “You made it very clear that you want nothing to do with us.”
The accusation sits between us. Sharp, unfair.
And entirely my fault.
“Izzy—”
“No,” she cuts in. “You don’t get to show up out of nowhere and start acting like you run my life.”
She steps closer, eyes blazing now.
“You walked away, remember?”
I can feel my patience thinning.
“Who else spoke to you tonight?” I ask.
Her mouth opens in disbelief.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Izzy.”
She glares at me for another long moment before finally answering.
“Just him. Happy?”
