She just refused to give the room the satisfaction.
Richard’s gaze swept over her like he was reading an acquisition report.
Then he smiled.
That was worse.
“Isa Calloway,” he said. “You’re even lovelier than the photos suggest.”
She held out her hand. “Mr. Montgomery. Thank you for having me.”
Hearing her say that name made something old and ugly crawl through me.
Montgomery.
Not Travers.
Never Travers in this house.
My father took her hand and held it one second too long. Not in a creepy way. In a control way. Like even greetings had to happen on his timing.
“Please,” he said smoothly. “Call me Richard.”
Isa’s smile warmed by exactly one degree.
“Then you’ll have to call me Isa.”
“Done.”
I hated that he sounded charmed.
I hated more that I knew he meant to.
Behind him, Everett and Beckett watched from near the bar.
The legitimate sons.
The real Montgomery legacy in the doghouse for now…
Everett leaned against the counter in a pale blue button-down with the sleeves rolled just enough to show a watch that probably cost more than most people’s cars. He was older than me by three years, blond, perfect, and already had the dead-eyed calm of a man who believed he’d earned every advantage he’d been handed at birth.
Everett would inherit board seats, private equity relationships, and my father’s approval.
Beckett stood beside him, darker-haired and prettier, with a looser grin and worse instincts. He had the kind of face women trusted right before they regretted it and the kind of posture that said consequences had always happened to other people.
His eyes went over Isa once.
Slowly.
Like the room had handed him something he might want to try on for size.
My knuckles cracked before I realized I had made fists.
Isa heard it.
She didn’t look at me, but her fingers wrapped around my wrist and squeezed once.
A warning.
