She was halfway down the gravel drive when the headlights pinned her in place.
The black Maybach rolled to a silent stop ten feet away. Viktor stepped out alone, no driver, no Luka, no guards. Just him in a charcoal overcoat, collar turned up against the wind whipping off the ocean. The moon hung low and bloated over the water, turning the world silver and merciless.
Isabella did not run. She stood barefoot on the cold stones, wearing nothing but his shirt and the marks he had put on her skin, duffel bag slung over one shoulder like a refugee.
Viktor looked at the bag, then at her face.
“You are leaving in that?” His voice carried the same calm authority it always did, but something underneath it cracked.
“I kept my part,” she said. “Seven nights. You kept yours until you didn’t. We’r
