"Also, I don't know if you've noticed," Sophia's tone became hesitant, brow furrowing slightly, "but Ms. Cole's condition these past fewdays has been extremely wrong. It's not just anger and hunger strikes... she's pale as paper, her eyes are defensive. She looks... like she's carrying some terrible secret alone, something frightening her badly, and she's about to break under the weight of it."
My heart dropped, a thorny sense of dread coiling around my throat.
"Secret?" My brow furrowed deeply. "What secret could she have in this estate?"
"That's an answer you need to find yourself, not through a wiretap." Sophia lowered her head, her tone grave. "If you keep crushing her with this iron fist, you'll lose her forever. Not to Marchetti, but destroyed by your own hand."
With that, Sophia bowed slightly and walked toward the far hallway.
I stood alone in the vast hall, the brilliant crystal chandelier overhead suddenly blinding. I clenched my fists, knuckles cracking from the pressure.
That rock-solid conviction I'd held was now fractured—dangerously—by Sophia's words.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Vivienne
Something had shifted in the air around the estate.
I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of my second-floor guest room, watching the security personnel on the lawn below. The number of black-suited enforcers who'd patrolled like iron towers had clearly thinned out, replaced by two highly equipped tactical teams. They wore black Kevlar vests, gripped compact submachine guns, and had eyes sharp as hawks.
In the east garage sat two black armored SUVs I'd never seen before—clearly bulletproofed, their windows the kind of thick ballistic glass that could stop a sniper rifle.
Nikolai was reinforcing defenses.
Or more accurately, he was preparing for war.
I pulled my gaze back and returned to my desk, staring at the blinking cursor on my laptop.
Something big was about to happen.
But I was locked in here, knowing nothing.
Especially since... I was hiding a secret.
My hand drifted to my stomach. Unease twisted inside me.
Knock knock.
Two restrained taps, then Natasha pushed a cart through the door.
"Ms. Cole, your breakfast." She set a bowl of warm oatmeal on the coffee table, tidying my cluttered desk as she added casually, "Also, the estate gardeners are coming this afternoon for routine lawn maintenance. They'll need to open the east side gate for a few hours. If the noise bothers you, I can close your windows."
"It's fine. Leave them open." I rubbed my throbbing temples without looking up. My mind was full of that world-shattering secret at the bottom of the bathroom trash can—I had no energy left to think about damn lawn maintenance.
"Understood." Natasha paused. "Also, sir instructed the kitchen to prepare those strawberry croissants you like. I'll bring them up shortly."
I stopped.
He was still trying to "buy" me with food.
"Don't bother." My tone was cold. "I'm not hungry."
"Ms. Cole—"
"I said don't bother." I cut her off, irritation creeping into my voice.
Natasha fell silent for several seconds before finally retreating.
