"I want you to see clearly." I take a calculated risk and reach for her again, my fingers finding her chin and tilting her face up to meet my gaze. "I want you to stop letting guilt blind you to the truth."
"And what truth is that?" Her voice is barely above a whisper now, the fight draining out of her as exhaustion takes its place.
"That Maya is using you. That she's been using you since your mother died, and you've been so desperate to save her that you can't see it."
The words land like physical blows. I watch Aria's face crumble, watch the careful walls she's built around her heart begin to crack, and something in my chest constricts painfully. I've hurt her. Again. But sometimes, the truth is a blade that cuts deep before it can heal.
"I hate you right now," she whispers, but her body sways toward mine despite the words.
"I know." My thumb brushes across her lower lip, feeling the soft warmth of her breath. "But you'll thank me later."
Before she can respond, before I can do something stupid like kiss away her fury, footsteps echo in the hallway. Cyril appears in the doorway, his phone extended, his gray eyes cold as winter. He slightly jerks his head to the side and I nod, knowing he wants to speak with me in private.
We go to my office and he extends his phone to me. "Just push play," he says as I look at a voice recording with the play symbol in the middle.
I take the phone and press play on the audio file. Maya's voice fills the room, clear and unmistakable.
"I can get you information about his routines. When he leaves, where he goes, how many guards he takes." A pause, then Cane's voice, oily and satisfied. "And in exchange?"
"You forgive half my debt. Twenty-five thousand."
27
ARIA
Istand at my prep station in Thyme & Tide's commercial kitchen, reviewing next week's catering schedule with a pen that's running out of ink. The familiar scent of herbs and stainless steel usually calms me, but today my mind keeps circling back to Nikolai's accusation about Maya. The bruise that vanished too quickly. The calculated tears. The way my sister's eyes flickered with something that looked like guilt before she left.
What if he was right? What if I've been so desperate to believe in Maya's recovery that I've been blind to the manipulation I've seen a hundred times before?
The thought makes my stomach churn, and I force myself to focus on the schedule. Three dinner parties next week, a corporate lunch on Thursday, and a wedding consultation on Saturday. Normal. Manageable. Mine.
I remember the way she touched that bruise. Not wincing, not protective, but almost performative. Like she was reminding me it was there.
My hand trembles slightly as I write, exhaustion pulling at my bones. I haven't slept properly in days, caught between my sister and a man who sees through her in ways I've been too afraid to. The doubt tastes like copper in my mouth, bitter and metallic, because questioning Maya feels like betraying the little girl who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms.
But that little girl grew up. And I'm not sure I know who she became.
The bell above the door chimes, and I glance up, expecting a delivery. Instead, two men in suits step through the entrance. Everything about them screams money and power, from their Italian leather shoes to the way they move with the casual confidence of people who've never been told no.
My security guard, the one with the scar bisecting his left eyebrow, straightens from his position near the door. His hand doesn't move toward his weapon, doesn't signal danger, which tells me everything I need to know before the men even open their mouths.
These men belong to Nikolai's world.
"Miss Levin." The taller one extends his hand, his smile professionally warm but his eyes cold as winter. "I'm Viktor Petrov, and this is my associate, Dmitri Volkov. We're financial advisors for Mr. Alekseev's organization."
I shake his hand because refusing would be childish, but my stomach tightens with instinct that screams danger. "What can I do for you?"
"We'd like to discuss a business opportunity." Viktor's gaze sweeps across my kitchen with the assessing look of someonecalculating value. "Is there somewhere we could speak privately?"
Every nerve in my body tells me to refuse, to tell them I'm busy and they need to make an appointment. But my guard's relaxed posture suggests this isn't a request I can decline. My pulse kicks up, a steady drumbeat of warning against my ribs as I lead them to the small office in the back, barely large enough for my desk and two folding chairs. My guard positions himself just outside the door, close enough to intervene but far enough to maintain the illusion of privacy.
Viktor and Dmitri settle into the chairs with practiced ease, and I remain standing behind my desk, needing the barrier between us even if it's just cheap particleboard. I notice the way Viktor's eyes catalog everything—the stack of invoices, the framed photo of Maya and me at my culinary school graduation, the permits on the wall. Dmitri's hands rest loosely on his knees, but there's a stillness to him that reminds me of a coiled spring.
"Thyme and Tide has excellent potential for expansion," Viktor begins, pulling a leather portfolio from his briefcase. "Your reputation is growing, your client base is loyal, and your coastal-inspired cuisine fills a niche in the market. With proper investment, you could open multiple locations, cater larger events, and build something truly impressive."
My hands grip the edge of my desk, knuckles whitening. "I'm not looking for investors."
"Of course not." Dmitri's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You've built this business through your own hard work and determination. That's admirable. But imagine what you could accomplish with proper capital and connections. The organization would provide everything you need. Equipment,staff, access to premium suppliers, introductions to high-profile clients."
