Chapter 5

**Isabella's POV**

I didn’t sleep.

How could I?

Every time I closed my eyes I saw that Polaroid burned onto the inside of my eyelids: a younger Lucian laughing with a man who wore Alexander’s face like a Halloween mask.

By 6:00 a.m. I was pacing the kitchen in one of Lucian’s black dress shirts (because apparently my own clothes had mysteriously disappeared into the laundry void) and nothing else. The marble was cold under my bare feet. The city outside was still bruised purple with dawn.

I had my phone in one hand and a mug of coffee strong enough to wake the dead in the other.

G****e was useless.

“Lucian Voss family” = zero results.

“Voss Enterprises founder” = only press releases from the last decade.

“Lucian Voss father” = a single obituary from 2010.

Jonathan Knight, beloved father, tragically lost at sea.

My stomach flipped.

Knight.

Not Voss.

I stared at the screen so hard the letters blurred.

“Morning, stalker.”

I yelped and spun around, coffee sloshing over the rim.

Lucian stood in the doorway wearing low-slung gray sweatpants and the expression of a man who already knew every secret I was trying to dig up. He looked annoyingly well-rested. And annoyingly shirtless.

I clutched the mug like a weapon. “We need to talk.”

He padded across the kitchen, took the coffee from my hand, and drank from the exact spot my lips had been. “Do not get distracted, Isabella.

“We talked last night,” he said, voice still rough from sleep. “I told you to forget what you saw.”

“Yeah, well, my brain didn’t get the memo.” I crossed my arms, which only made his shirt ride higher on my thighs. His gaze flicked down, lingered, then came back up, darker.

Focus.

“Jonathan Knight was your father,” I said flatly.

 “Died in a yacht explosion fifteen years ago. Except the man in that photo is definitely him. And he looks exactly like Alexander. Explain.”

Lucian set the mug down with deliberate calm. “You’re digging into things that can get you hurt.”

“I’m already hurt,” I snapped. “I just publicly torched my entire life. I think I deserve to know why my fake boyfriend has photos of my ex-fiancé’s dead doppelgänger dad in a safe with a gun and fake passports.”

He went very still.

For a second I thought he might actually tell me.

Then his phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen and every trace of softness vanished.

“Car’s downstairs in twenty,” he said. “We’re having breakfast with the board. Wear the black suit with the slit.”

“Lucian—”

He was already walking away.

I grabbed his wrist. Hard.

He stopped, looked down at my fingers, then at me.

“Three questions,” I said, voice shaking. “That’s all I’m asking. One: is Alexander your brother? Two: did you know who I was the night you found me in that coffee shop? Three: are you planning to kill him?”

The silence stretched so long I heard my own heartbeat.

Finally he leaned in until his lips brushed my ear.

“Yes. Yes. And only if he forces my hand.”

My breath left me in a whoosh.

He pulled back just far enough to meet my eyes.

 “But if you keep pushing, Isabella, the person who ends up dead might be you. Some truths are landmines. Walk carefully.”

Then he kissed my forehead (soft, almost tender) and walked out like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb in my chest.

I stood frozen until the entire time the stylist did my hair and makeup. My brain was a hurricane.

Brother.

He’d known who I was.

And murder was apparently still on the table.

By the time we reached the restaurant, I was vibrating with adrenaline and fear and something that felt disturbingly like lust.

The board members greeted Lucian like royalty and me like the new queen they weren’t sure they wanted. I smiled, shook hands, let Lucian’s palm rest possessively on my lower back the whole time.

Under the table his fingers drew slow circles on my thigh through the slit in my skirt. Every time I tried to shift away, he tightened his grip.

Halfway through the appetizers, my phone buzzed.

It was Alexander.

I opened the message under the table: You have 24 hours to come home, Isabella. Or I tell the world you were sleeping with Lucian Voss long before you left me at the altar. Attached is a photo of you leaving his building at 4 a.m. the night before the wedding.

Love, Alexander.

My fork clattered against the plate.

Lucian’s hand stilled on my thigh. “Problem?”

I turned the screen toward him.

His expression didn’t change, but I felt the temperature around us drop ten degrees.

He typed a reply without asking permission.

Lucian (using my phone): Cute photoshop. Try harder.

He hit send, pocketed my phone, and went back to his eggs Benedict like nothing happened.

I stared at him. “How did you—”

He cut me a bite of salmon, held it to my lips. “Eat.”

I obeyed, mostly because my brain was melting.

After breakfast we were supposed to do a “spontaneous” paparazzi walk through Central Park.

Instead he dragged me into the back of the Maybach, hit the privacy screen, and pinned me to the leather seat before the door even closed.

“What are you—”

His mouth crashed into mine.

Not soft. Not sweet. This was punishment and possession and apology all at once. I kissed him back just as hard, teeth, tongue, pure fury.

When we broke apart we were both breathing like we’d run a marathon.

“That,” he growled against my lips, “was for letting him get in your head.”

I laughed, shaky and delirious. “You just admitted he’s your brother.”

“Half,” he corrected, nipping my bottom lip. “And the half I share with him I’d gladly cut out with a rusty knife.”

His hand slid up my thigh, higher, until I gasped.

“But you,” he whispered, “you’re the half I'm considering keeping.”

Then the car stopped and the door opened and the moment shattered.

The rest of the day was torture.

Every touch lingered too long. Every look promised later. Every smile we gave the cameras felt like foreplay.

By the time we got back to the penthouse that night I was ready to explode.

I kicked off my heels in the foyer. “Living room. Now. We’re finishing that conversation.”

He loosened his tie, eyes glittering. “Yes, ma’am.”

I marched ahead of him, heart hammering.

And that’s when I saw it.

On the coffee table sat a single item that hadn’t been there this morning.

A small black box.

Inside: it was the Polaroid from the safe.

And a new note in Lucian’s handwriting.

 "This is yours when you’re ready to stop being afraid of the truth."

"But remember, once you know, there’s no going back."

Choose carefully, Isabella.

I stared at it until my eyes burned.

Lucian came up behind me, hands on my hips, mouth at my ear.

“Tick-tock, Bella,” he whispered. “Some doors only open once.”

My fingers hovered over the lid.

I was one heartbeat away from everything changing forever.