5
Willa
Iwake to unfamiliar sheets and the scent of expensive cologne clinging to fabric that isn’t mine. Panic flutters in my chest before memory crashes back of Henri’s blood spreading across the antique floor, gunfire shattering the peaceful life I’d built at Maison Laurent, and Iskander’s hands steady and protective as he shielded me from bullets meant to end my life.
The guest room surrounds me in muted blues and creams, with everything designed to soothe rather than intimidate. Pale morning light filters through sheer curtains, revealing tasteful furniture and artwork that whispers of old money rather than shouting about it. This isn’t Iskander’s bedroom, which somehow both relieves and disappoints me in ways I don’t want to examine.
A soft knock interrupts my disorientation. “Miss Reynolds?” calls a woman, her voice accented but gentle. “I am Alina, Mr. Taranov’s housekeeper. May I come in?”
I sit up, pulling the covers to my chest despite being fully clothed in yesterday’s blood-stained blouse. “Yes.”
The woman who enters could be anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five, with delicate features and long black hair pulled back in a simple bun. Her uniform is crisp and professional, but her smile seems genuinely warm. “How are you feeling?” She sets a tray on the bedside table with coffee, toast, and fresh fruit arranged with careful attention. “Dr. Volkov said you might experience some grogginess from the sedative.”
The sedative. Right. The events after Henri’s death blur together like watercolors in rain, but I remember Iskander calling a doctor, who was discreet and asked no questions about what happened while checking me for injuries I hadn’t sustained.
“I need to go home.” The words tumble out before I can organize them properly. “My roommate must be worried sick. I should have called her last night, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
She nods with understanding. “Of course. Mr. Taranov anticipated you might prefer to return to familiar surroundings. I can arrange transportation whenever you’re ready.”
“Where is he?” I ask, then immediately regret the question. It sounds too eager, like I’m too invested in a man whose world just destroyed mine.
“He left early this morning for business meetings.” Her expression remains neutral, but something flickers in her dark eyes. “He thought you might appreciate privacy to process everything that’s happened.”
The explanation makes perfect sense, but disappointment settles in my stomach anyway. After what we shared last night—the violence, the terror, and Henri’s death—I expectedsome acknowledgment, or maybe some conversation about what comes next. Instead, Iskander vanished, leaving me to wake up alone in his guest room with only his housekeeper for company.
Maybe that’s better. Maybe distance is exactly what I need to regain perspective on a situation that’s spiraled completely beyond my control. “I’d like to leave as soon as possible,” I tell Alina, pushing aside the untouched breakfast tray. My stomach churns with nausea, making it impossible to eat even if I wanted to take the extra few minutes.
Within thirty minutes, I’m dressed in clothes that smell like gunpowder and grief, sitting in the passenger seat of a black SUV with windows tinted dark enough to hide state secrets. The driver introduces himself as Anton. He’s mid-thirties, polite but professional, with obvious situational awareness that suggests military service for some country in his background.
The vehicle itself feels like a fortress on wheels. It has heavy doors, reinforced glass, and enough technology to run a small corporation. I wonder if it’s bulletproof, then decide I probably don’t want to know the answer.
Charleston passes outside the windows like a movie I’m not really watching. Historic mansions give way to trendy neighborhoods, which dissolve into the modest area where Harper and I share our tiny apartment. Everything looks exactly the same as it did yesterday evening, but I feel fundamentally changed in ways I can’t articulate.
“Here we are,” Anton says, pulling up to my building. “Will you need anything else, Miss Reynolds?”
“No, thank you.” I pause with one hand on the door handle. “Anton, will I see you again?”
His smile is kind but noncommittal. “That depends on many factors beyond my control.”
The diplomatic non-answer tells me everything I need to know about my new circumstances. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.
Harper launches herself at me the moment I step into our apartment, her relief so obvious it makes my chest ache with guilt. “Where the hell have you been?” She pulls back to examine my face, gripping my shoulders. “I’ve been calling your phone all night. When you didn’t come home, I was about to call the police.”
“My phone...” I pat my pockets, realizing I have no idea what happened to my cell during the chaos. “I think I lost it.”
“Willa, you look terrible. What happened at the shop?” She takes in my wrinkled, bloodstained clothes and probably the lingering scent of violence that seems to cling to everything now. “You said it was just alterations.”
The story pours out of me in broken fragments. Henri’s death, the gunmen, Iskander’s protection, and waking up in a mansion that belongs in architectural magazines. Harper listens without interruption, her expression shifting from concern to horror to something approaching panic.
“Oh my God.” She guides me to our couch, the same overstuffed sofa where we shared soup and argued about dangerous men just yesterday. “Oh, Willa, I’m so sorry about Henri.”
The tears I’ve been holding back since Anton dropped me off finally break free. Henri’s last words echo in my memory about his pride in me, his final instruction to take care of the shop, and his dying wish that I trust Iskander, the man who saved my lifeand then disappeared before I could process what that salvation might cost.
She holds me while I sob, stroking my hair the way she’s done since we were teenagers navigating foster care together. She doesn’t offer platitudes or false comfort, just presence when presence is all I can handle.
Eventually, the tears subside into hiccups and exhaustion. She tucks a throw blanket around my shoulders and makes tea neither of us will drink, keeping her hands busy while she considers implications I’m not ready to face.
“You need to sleep,” she finally says. “Real sleep, not whatever sedative-induced unconsciousness you got last night.”
