Victoria stared at the screen, silent. Her eyes flicked from one signature to the other, then back again.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “Son of a bitch.”
The words hit Isabel like a rush of cold air. Relief and exhaustion flooded through her so fast she nearly swayed. “It’s her, Victoria. It’s been her all along.”
Victoria’s eyes lifted to meet hers. For the first time in days, there was no ice in them—only guilt, raw and unguarded. “I should’ve known. I should’ve trusted you.”
Isabel let out a shaky laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah, well…you didn’t.”
Victoria flinched. The silence stretched again, brittle and heavy.
Then, softer, “I’m sorry.”
Isabel’s throat tightened at the sincerity in her voice. “You really thought I could do that to you? To the department?”
“I didn’t want to,” Victoria said quietly. “But I let the evidence speak louder than my instincts. That was my mistake.”
Isabel crossed her arms, looking down, trying to blink back the sting in her eyes. “You think saying that makes it hurt less?”
“No,” Victoria said. “But I needed to say it anyway.”
Something in her tone—low, steady, regretful—cut straight through Isabel’s defenses. The anger in her chest softened into something else, something just as dangerous.
Victoria stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully. “You could’ve taken this to Internal Affairs. You didn’t have to come to me.”
Isabel shook her head. “I wanted you to be the first to know. I needed you to believe me.”
That last line hung between them, raw and bare.
Victoria reached out then, hesitant, her fingers brushing Isabel’s hand. Isabel didn’t pull away. For a moment, they just stood there breathing the same air, the world narrowing to the space between them.
Then Victoria’s hand slid up, her palm resting against Isabel’s cheek. “I do believe you,” she whispered. “I always did.”
The words hit harder than Isabel expected. She let out a breath that trembled on its way out, leaning into the touch she’d been craving for days.
And when Victoria leaned in, Isabel didn’t stop her.
The kiss wasn’t frantic this time. It was deep and deliberate—an apology, a promise, and a release all at once. Days of tension and mistrust melted into warmth and need. Isabel’s hands found Victoria’s waist, pulling her closer, feeling the solid weight of her body, the steady thrum of her pulse.
Victoria broke the kiss only long enough to whisper, “I don’t want to fight with you anymore.”
“Then don’t,” Isabel murmured, pulling her back in.
They stumbled together toward the couch, the weight of everything—fear, anger, relief—collapsing into touch. The worldoutside could wait. For now, there was only this: forgiveness, fire, and the fragile truth finally between them.
15
VICTORIA
The living room was quiet except for the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the rhythmic sound of Isabel’s breathing. The lamp’s glow washed the space in gold, catching on the empty wineglass and the crumpled throw blanket tangled at their feet.
Victoria lay draped across Isabel, her cheek resting against the rise and fall of her chest. For the first time in days, her body felt loose, disarmored. The air smelled faintly of soap and skin and something like peace.
Isabel’s fingers trailed lazy circles along her shoulder. “You’re thinking too loud again,” she murmured.
Victoria smiled faintly. “Occupational hazard.”
“Try turning it off.”
