I shake my head, my mood too woeful for neither a better reply nor company. “Okay…” Her sigh seeps over the eerie silence from the DJ switching tracks. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
I slip through my office door before half her reply reaches my ears. While pacing to the drawer I hid Isabelle’s file in, I pop open another button on my dress shirt. The top two buttons are already undone, however, I feel as if I’m being asphyxiated.
Guilt has a way of buckling the strongest men’s knees.
I freeze partway to my desk when the thick, disdained voice of Hugo booms into my ears. “You could have at least let her taste her cake before you dragged her out like a madman.” He stands to his feet, dumps a Harlow’s Scrumptious Haven cake box onto my desk, then turns to face me. “If you’re here seeking confirmation for what I think you are, let me set the record straight for you. Yes, today is Isabelle’s birthday. Yes, she was given life the same day as Ophelia. No, she is unaware of the connection.”
“How can you be so sure?” I ask like there’s no actuality in his tone.
When he steps closer to me, for the first time in a long time, I see him as more of a friend than a member of my team. “Because not only does Izzy wear her heart on her sleeve… as does somebody else I know…” He doesn’t say my name during the mumbled half of his comment. He doesn’t need to. The pompous glare in his eyes reveals who he’s pointing the finger at. Me. “She also doesn’t celebrate her birthday on the day she was born.”
It’s rare for me to be speechless, but there’s no denying it this evening. I’m stumped for a reply.
Mercifully, Hugo wouldn’t know the difference between a stunned man and an arrogant one, so he responds to my silence as if I am both. Since he isn’t far off the mark, I let him. “Isabelle was born twenty-five years ago, but her life didn’t begin until six years and fourteen days later.”
My jaw tightens when he hands me a sheet of paper that verifies Isabelle’s twenty-fifth birthday was almost two weeks ago. I’m not frustrated she was caught lying. It’s the fact Hugo removed his evidence from the file I hid in my drawer—the file I had every intention of rummaging through before he foiled my endeavor with his surly attitude and protective big-brother demeanor.
“Let me finish before you get all worked up,” Hugo suggests when I shove a paper copy of Isabelle’s license into his chest. “Today is Isabelle’s birthday, Isaac. To her, it was the day she was given life. It just also happens to be years after her actual birth.” When I walk to the bar in the corner of my office, it dawns on him that he’s losing me, so he talks faster. “Since she was six, Isabelle has celebrated her birthday on the day her uncle purchased her. They didn’t change the year or month, just the day.”
I freeze with a whiskey decanter suspended halfway between my chest and the crystal table in front of me, too stunned to move. “Isabelle was sold?” Hugo’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down before his chin gets in on the action. “By whom?” I’m shocked I can speak with how tight my jaw is. My back molars are grinding together, and I’m moments away from sending the crystal decanter in my hand across the room.
Hugo hesitates before replying, “Her father.”
When he attempts to hand me a second stack of papers, the hesitation on his face jumps onto mine. A forced truth is worthless, so my faith in one shared against a person’s will is wholly useless.
Upon sensing my unease, Hugo smiles like I responded how he hoped, slips the paperwork back into Isabelle’s file, stores it into the drawer I will be placing a lock on first thing tomorrow, then yanks a secondary one out of the breast pocket of his jacket. “Izzy is more than capable of sharing her secrets, but this little girl can’t.”
The beat of my heart is unnatural when he hands me a single photo of a child I’d guess to be between the age of one and five. Her sunken cheeks and waif-like frame make it impossible to gauge her actual age. She’s badly malnourished, although not even that can detract from the familiarity of her eyes.
She is either Isabelle’s sister or her daughter. Their resemblance is uncanny.
“That’s Isabelle’s three-year-old sister, Callie Popov.” My eyes snap to the door, not just surprised by Hunter’s arrival but shocked by his pronunciation of Callie’s last name. He said it with the Russian mafia royalty twang it deserves.
The Popov entity is based out of Vegas, many, many miles from Ravenshoe, but I still know who they are. Their leader, Vladimir Popov, is a notorious, no-holds-barred man. He wants to rule the world, and if it weren’t for Henry’s interference a couple of years ago, he would have reintegrated the footholds he had in this area before I spruced it up.
His last attempt was almost six months ago. If his timetable of corruption indicates how he handles things, further endeavors to claw his nails into my empire are already in the works. Is Isabelle a part of his plan? Or am I so far off the scent, not even naturally engrained good judgment will steer me in the right direction?
I realize it is the latter when Hunter discloses, “Callie is being sold on the twenty-seventh of next month.” I check my watch, noting that it is a little over five weeks away. “Unlike previous sales conducted…” he doesn’t need to mention Isabelle for me to know she is being included in his reference, “… Callie’s sale will be a private listing. Buyers are welcomed to view the asset before bidding, but their identities will remain anonymous throughout the sale process.”
“How is this occurring? Who in their right mind sells their own flesh and blood?”
Hunter’s lips twitch as he prepares to speak, but Hugo beats him to it. “Men who care about no one but themselves, who treat their wives and children so worthlessly, they can’t help but change the day they celebrate being given life.”
I understand what he’s saying, and I feel like absolute shit for making Isabelle cry today of all days, but I’m still struggling to comprehend what benefit anyone gets from purchasing children on the black market. There are thousands of children seeking loving homes in orphanages, and they come without a hefty price tag.
My stomach gurgles when truth smacks into me like a wayward missile. Nothing ever purchased is as worthwhile as something achieved through hard work and determination.
“How can I participate in her sale?” I ask, for once allowing my heart to speak before my head.
Hugo chokes on his spit, whereas Hunter maintains a cool, rational head. It is the reason he is the head of my security. “That isn’t advisable, Isaac. This isn’t an arena you should showcase your empire’s abilities in. If Vladimir comprehends it for all its worth, you’ll never get rid of the sponge.”
Although I agree with him, opening my empire’s doors to Vladimir will have it scrutinized even more than it already is, but I can’t act as if I haven’t seen what I have. I can’t look at eyes identical to Isabelle’s in every way and not consider what will happen to her if the wrong person purchases her. Just ruminating on what Isabelle could have possibly faced in her childhood has me suffocating desires I’ve never had. The urge will never fully taper with more than one name on the list.
I end the silence teeming between us with a somber question. “What will happen to Callie if I don’t intervene?”
Hunter covers most of his face with a scruffy beard to hide his massive heart. How do I know this? I use business suits in the same manner. “She’ll…” he licks his lips then tries again. “She’ll most likely…” After breathing out heavily, he dumps his hemp bag onto my desk, drags the chair Cormack’s floured ass dusted four weeks ago in close, fires up his laptop, then asks, “How much are you willing to spend?” like a monetary amount will weaken the colossal knot in my stomach.
I made Isabelle cry on her birthday, having no clue how many of her previous birthdays produced the same result. Guilt can’t change the outcome of my erroneous error in judgment today, but I have the means to make the scald far less blistering.
