Isla POV
I didn't sleep.
How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the man's body falling. Heard the gunshot. Saw those green eyes staring at me like I was already dead.
At 5:45 AM, I sat on my apartment floor with one small suitcase. Everything I owned fit inside. Wasn't that pathetic? Twenty-six years of life, and it all packed into one bag.
My phone buzzed.
We're outside. Time to go. -Viktor
My hands shook as I stood up. This was really happening. I was really going to live with a murderer for six months.
But Mom would live. That's what mattered. That's the only thing that mattered.
I grabbed my suitcase and walked out, leaving my old life behind.
The black car waiting downstairs cost more than my entire apartment building. Viktor held the door open, his scarred face unreadable.
"Morning," he said, almost gently. Like he felt sorry for me.
I slid inside without answering. What was there to say?
The drive through morning traffic felt like riding to my own funeral. We left Queens behind, crossed into Manhattan, and the buildings grew taller. Richer. More impossible.
"He's not as bad as you think," Viktor said suddenly.
I looked at him in the rearview mirror. "He killed someone."
"He's killed many people." Viktor's voice stayed calm. "But he has rules. Codes. He's not his father."
I didn't want to know what that meant. Didn't want to understand the world I was entering.
We pulled up to a building made entirely of glass and steel, reaching into the sky like it was trying to touch heaven. The doorman opened my door, acting like terrified girls in old uniforms arrived every day.
Maybe they did.
The elevator moved so fast my stomach dropped. Numbers climbed—20, 30, 40—until we reached the very top.
Penthouse.
Of course.
The doors opened directly into the apartment, and I forgot how to breathe.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showed all of Manhattan spread below like a kingdom. Morning sun poured through, making everything glow. The space was bigger than my entire apartment building—all white marble and dark furniture and art that probably cost millions.
Beautiful. Terrifying. Like everything else about Dominic Volkov.
"Your room is this way." Viktor walked down a hallway, and I followed in a daze.
He opened a door to a bedroom twice the size of my old apartment. Massive bed. Private bathroom. Another wall of windows.
"Boss wants you comfortable," Viktor said. "You need anything, press this button." He pointed to a panel by the bed. "Someone will come."
Someone. Not him. Not Dominic.
I was surrounded by strangers who worked for a killer.
"When do I start... working?" The word tasted wrong.
"Tomorrow. Today, you rest. Get familiar with the space. Doctor's coming at two to check you over—"
"Check me over?" My voice rose. "Why?"
Viktor's expression softened. "Boss wants to make sure you're healthy. That you weren't hurt last night. It's not—he's not going to hurt you."
But the way he said it made me wonder how many other girls had heard those words before things went wrong.
"I'll leave you to settle in," Viktor said, heading for the door.
"Wait." I grabbed my courage. "My mother. He promised—"
"Already handled. She's being transferred to Mount Sinai this morning. Private room, best oncology team in the country. Dr. Chen is taking her case personally." He paused at the door. "Boss keeps his promises, Isla. The good ones and the bad ones. Remember that."
Then I was alone.
I sat on the bed—so soft it felt like floating—and tried not to cry. Mom would live. That's what I'd sold myself for. That's what made this bearable.
My phone rang. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Isla?" Mom's voice, weak but confused. "Honey, what's happening? Doctors came this morning saying I'm being transferred. They mentioned a private sponsor—"
"It's okay, Mom." I forced brightness into my voice. "I got a new job. Really good pay. They have excellent health benefits."
"A job?" She sounded suspicious. "What kind of job pays for private cancer care?"
Lying to my mother felt like swallowing glass. "Executive assistant. To a businessman. It's... it's a good opportunity."
"Isla Marie Monroe, you better not have done anything dangerous—"
"I didn't. I promise." The lie burned. "I love you, Mom. Get some rest. I'll visit soon."
I hung up before she could ask more questions.
The apartment was silent. Too silent. I stood and explored, opening doors.
A library. A gym. A kitchen bigger than most restaurants.
And then I found his office.
I knew I shouldn't go in. Knew this was crossing a line. But my feet moved anyway.
The desk was neat—too neat for someone who lived here. But on the wall behind it hung something that made my blood freeze.
Photographs. Dozens of them. Pinned to a massive board with red string connecting them.
Faces. Names. Locations.
And in the center, circled in red marker: Marcus Chen - FBI.
My ex-fiancé's face stared back at me.
The room spun. Marcus was FBI? Marcus, who'd controlled every part of my life, who'd made me feel small and worthless—he was a federal agent?
But why was his photo on Dominic's wall?
"Interesting choice for morning exploration."
I spun around.
Dominic stood in the doorway, still wearing clothes from last night. He looked exhausted. Dangerous. His green eyes pinned me in place.
"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—"
"You know him." Not a question. A statement. He moved closer, studying my face. "I can see it. You recognize Marcus Chen."
My heart hammered. "He's... we used to..."
"Date?" Dominic's smile was cold. "More than that, according to my files. You were engaged. Two years ago. You broke it off."
He knew. Of course he knew. He knew everything.
"Why do you have his picture?" I whispered.
Dominic's eyes went dark. "Because Marcus Chen has been trying to infiltrate my organization for six months. He's gotten close—too close. Closer than any agent has in five years."
The room tilted. "You think I—that I'm working with him?"
"Are you?"
"No!" The word exploded out of me. "I haven't spoken to Marcus in two years! I swear!"
He studied me for a long moment. Then he reached past me and pulled Marcus's photo down.
"Good," he said softly. "Because if I find out you're lying, if I discover you're his plant, his spy, his way inside..." He leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. "I'll kill you both. Him first, so you can watch. Then you, slowly, so you have time to regret every choice that brought you here."
Terror locked my voice in my throat.
He pulled back, and his expression shifted—became almost gentle. "But I don't think you're lying. I'm very good at reading people. It's how I've stayed alive."
He walked toward the door, then paused.
"Marcus called you seventeen times in the last twenty-four hours. I suggest you answer. Tell him you're fine. Tell him you got a new job. Tell him anything except the truth." His smile was razor-sharp. "Because if he comes looking for you, if he tries to be your hero, I'll paint this penthouse with his blood."
Then he was gone, and I was alone with the photograph of my ex-fiancé lying on the floor.
FBI. Marcus was FBI.
And somehow, I'd stumbled into the middle of a war between the man I once loved and the monster who now owned me.
My phone buzzed. Text from Marcus:
Isla, where are you? I'm worried. Call me. Please.
My fingers hovered over the screen.
What had I gotten myself into?