Chapter 64: Misery and company
Isabella couldn’t help a small laugh from escaping her lips.
Aaron really did keep the strangest people around him. First Pyotr, then the energetic teenagers, and now this loud, overly friendly lawyer.
None of them seemed normal.
"Here’s the situation," Niko said, his tone shifting into something surprisingly sharp and organized, despite his relaxed posture.
"You’ll eventually have to fly back to America for the formal court hearing. We’re looking at a few weeks from now once the court clears the calendar. Now, Kian is contesting the divorce, which sounds scary, but legally speaking? The man is standing on a house of cards."
"He is?" Isabella asked softly.
"Absolutely," Niko said, waving his hand dismissively.
"You aren’t asking for his money. You aren’t asking for his family stock, his house, or his cars. You want zero dollars. In a divorce court, when a spouse asks for nothing, it’s almost impossible for the other side to claim they’re being wronged. Kian’s whole argument is basically ’I want her to stay because I said so.’ Judges hate that."
"But what about Arthur Pendleton?" Aaron asked, leaning against the edge of the table, his coffee cup held in one hand. "He isn’t stupid."
"Pendleton is a shark, no doubt," Niko acknowledged, leaning back and lacing his fingers together.
"He’ll try to stall. He’ll throw out procedural delays, claim Isabella isn’t mentally fit, or try to drag out the timeline so she gets tired and gives up. But we have the upper hand. We’re clean, we’re fast, and we have more money to throw at this than Carter does."
A maid walked in, placing a tray of fresh pastries, tea, and warm biscuits on the glass table.
Niko immediately snatched a chocolate croissant, taking a large bite.
"Mmm! God, your estate chef is a saint, Aaron." He turned back to Isabella, speaking through a mouthful of pastry.
"Oh, by the way, we also checked on the eye drop samples you had sent out to that independent lab in the city. The results aren’t back yet but we should have the chemical breakdown by early next week."
Isabella nodded, feeling a quiet sense of relief settling into her chest. Listening to Niko speak, despite his silly jokes and loud voice, made the terrifying prospect of a legal war feel manageable.
Aaron stood quietly by the window, taking a slow sip of his coffee. He wasn’t paying much attention to Niko’s legal ranting. His eyes were fixed entirely on Isabella.
He watched the way her small lips curved into a faint, relaxed smile, the way her shoulders finally dropped their tension, and how the morning sunlight caught the golden flecks in her dark hair.
She looked so soft, so sweet sitting there on his couch, surrounded by his people.
A fierce, quiet possessiveness stirred deep in his chest. She belonged here, in this house, under his protection. And no court in the world was going to take her away.
"So!" Niko wiped his hands on a napkin, standing up with a grin. "Bottom line, Isabella? Relax. Enjoy the tea, eat the pastries, and let us handle the dirty work. You’re going to win."
Isabella smiled warmly, holding her tea cup close. "Thank you, Niko. I believe you."
Across the ocean, in the early hours of the morning, a very different kind of scene was playing out.
It was 4:30 AM in a private, ultra-exclusive lounge on the top floor of a luxury hotel.
The room was dim, lit only by soft wall sconces and the faint glow of the city skyline through heavy tinted glass.
The air was thick with the smell of stale tobacco smoke, heavy bourbon, and expensive leather.
Half-empty glasses rested on dark wooden tables, surrounded by ash trays and scattered papers. A group of wealthy, older businessmen, the kind who controlled shipping lines, banks, and real estate empires, sat melted into plush leather armchairs, nursing their late-night drinks after hours of informal negotiations.
Among them sat Kian.
He was leaning back in a dark armchair, an arm resting over the side, a crystal glass of scotch held loosely in his fingers.
He looked exhausted. His tie was loosened at his neck, his dark hair slightly disheveled, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and too much alcohol.
But despite the booze in his system, he wasn’t sloppy. He sat with a dangerous, stiff composure, his face cold and unreadable.
Across from him, a fat, balding tycoon with a gold watch took a slow puff from his cigar and let out a wet laugh.
"I still can’t believe it, Carter," the old man chuckled, his voice raspy from smoke. "I heard news floating around the club yesterday. Your wife really ran off with Kazarov?"
Another man in a gray suit let out a quiet snort. "And now I hear you hired Arthur Pendleton to contest the divorce papers? Why bother, Kian? She’s just a woman. Cut your losses, take the clean break, and find a younger one."
Kian took a slow, quiet sip of his scotch. He hated these old men. He hated their fat faces, their foul cigars, and the way they talked about his life like it was a piece of cheap gossip.
A cold, murderous thought flickered through his mind—he wanted to shatter his crystal glass and drive the jagged edges straight into the old man’s neck.
Instead, Kian offered a polite, chilly smile.
"It’s not about the money, gentlemen," Kian said, his voice quiet, carrying a dark, strange edge that made the room grow still.
"Then what is it?" the fat man asked, frowning slightly. "Why drag it out?"
Kian leaned forward, placing his glass on the table with a soft ’clink’. He looked the old man dead in the eye, his gaze completely hollow.
"Because she doesn’t get to decide when she’s finished with me," Kian said softly.
Silence fell over the lounge.
The two older men shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The casual, joking atmosphere instantly evaporated, replaced by a sudden, chilling awkwardness.
The way Kian had said it, without anger, without passion, just a quiet, disturbing statement of fact, made the skin on their arms prickle.
Kian saw the hesitation on their faces, realizing he had let the mask slip a little too much.
He stood up smoothly, buttoning his jacket. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I need to wash up."
Without waiting for a response, Kian turned and walked out of the lounge, his heavy steps echoing down the quiet, carpeted hallway toward the luxury restroom.
The restroom was massive, lined with dark marble and lit by soft, recessed lights. Kian walked over to the long row of brass sinks, turning on the gold faucet and splashing cold water onto his face.
He leaned over the marble basin, water dripping from his jaw, staring up at his reflection in the mirror.
His face looked terrible.
Dark circles were starting to form on the skin beneath his bloodshot eyes, his stubble was coming in rough, and his posture was slouched.
There was no audience here, no business partners to impress, no reputation to hold up. He just looked miserable. A broken, exhausted man drowning in his own choices.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Kian pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
’Alice.’
He stared at her name for three seconds, then hit the side button, muting the call and shoving the phone back into his pocket.
He didn’t want to answer her. He didn’t want to go back to the Kingston estate, because he knew Alice would be waiting there for him, asking questions, trying to fill a space that didn’t belong to her.
He didn’t want Alice. He hated her voice right now.
He wanted Isabella.
Kian wiped his face with a small linen towel, leaning his hands against the marble counter as he stared back into the mirror.
And then, his heart stopped.
In the reflection of the glass behind him, he saw a slender figure in a dark dress walking past the doorway. Long, soft dark hair falling over her shoulders, a delicate frame, a slow, hesitant walk.
"Isabella?" Kian rasped, spinning around instantly.
He rushed out of the main bathroom into the outer hallway, his chest hammering against his ribs. "Isabella!"
There was no one there. Just a quiet, empty corridor.
A second later, a young woman stepped out of a service closet nearby, holding a small cleaning caddy and a spray bottle.