I woke up before dawn, though I didn’t move. Isabella was asleep, her back still turned to me, breathing soft and steady. But even in sleep, I noticed the way her body shifted restlessly, the faint furrow in her brow.
She was in pain.
She wouldn’t admit it, but I knew.
By the time the sun broke through the curtains, I was downstairs, pacing the kitchen, pouring myself coffee I didn’t touch. My mind was everywhere—business, Russians, betrayal—but it kept circling back to her.
The faint creak of the stairs pulled my eyes up.
Isabella.
She moved carefully, hand gliding along the rail, steps slower than usual. She thought I wouldn’t notice. She was wearing her nightgown still, hair a little messy, eyes heavy with exhaustion. In her hand, I caught the glint of a bottle—painkillers.
She h
