The echoes of Claire’s footsteps still lingered in Isabella’s mind as she paced the length of the penthouse. The folder Claire had left on the coffee table sat untouched, its presence a taunting reminder of the enemy who had offered her allegiance. She hadn’t yet opened it; the weight of its contents felt almost too heavy to bear. Antonov’s secrets could either save them or pull them further into his web.
Victor stood by the window, his phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other, though it remained unlit. He had been quiet since Claire’s departure, a rare occurrence that only deepened Isabella’s unease.
“You don’t trust her,” Isabella finally said, breaking the silence.
Victor turned, his expression sharp. “Would you?”
“No,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “But if there’s even a
