Page 47 of Taking What's Mine

I shake my head. “Not yet. But we’re close. Maybe if you step in now, you can get Devereaux to play along.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, struggling with the decision. Silence hangs heavy, broken only by the drip of coffee in the kitchen. Finally, he lifts his head. “All right,” he says, voice strained. “I’ll call him. You know, it’s funny but his sister and best friend did something similar to this.”

“Really?” Isabel asks.

“Yeah, Greer Huxley pretended to date his best friend for publicity.”

“How’d that work out?” I ask.

“They’re married with a kid on the way.” Dean shifts. “Listen, I don’t like this one bit, but I promise not to interfere. Be safe, and smart. No more secrets.”

Isabel visibly relaxes, relief softening her posture. “We will,” she promises.

Dean’s gaze flicks between us again, something still burning in his expression. “I don’t like this,” he warns. “If anything happens to Isabel?—”

I nod firmly, stepping closer to the couch. “I understand. It won’t.” My own voice carries a weight of conviction I’ve rarely felt before. Protecting her isn’t just a job, not anymore.

Dean grunts, then pushes to his feet. He looks at Isabel, and for a beat, all his anger dissolves into plain worry. “Call me,” he saysquietly, “if you need anything at all.” He hesitates like he wants to say more—maybe about her staying here, or about the bigger secrets we’re obviously not discussing—but in the end, he just exhales and heads for the door.

I follow him to the threshold, arms at my sides. “Dean,” I murmur, keeping my voice low so Isabel doesn’t hear, “I’ll keep her safe. I promise.”

He nods once, a tight dip of his head, then slips out without another word.

When I lock the door, relief mingles with fresh anxiety. We dodged a bullet, but we’re far from safe. My chest feels like a battleground of guilt and relief, and I can’t stop thinking about how close we came to a complete disaster if Dean had walked in just a half hour earlier, or if he’d pressed for more details about the personal relationship I’ve formed with his sister.

As I return to the living room, Isabel stands near the couch, arms wrapped around herself, that overlong T-shirt skimming the tops of her thighs. She looks at me, eyes wide, uncertain. “So,” she says softly, “that happened.”

I rub the back of my neck, wishing I could wipe away all the tension in one go. “Yeah.”

She gives a shaky laugh, though there’s no real humor in it. “You think he bought it? That we’re just… infiltration partners?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Dean’s sharp. If Devereaux fed him details—” My mind strays to the kisses, the dancing, the way we touched each other. I swallow hard. “He might suspect more.”

Isabel nods, pressing her lips together. For a moment, she looks on the verge of saying something—maybe an apology, maybe achallenge—then she just sighs. “Thanks for backing me up,” she says quietly.

“Always.”

The coffee machine beeps, signaling it’s done. We exchange a wary look that almost makes me laugh—like, out of all the chaos, the coffee pot’s polite beep is the only normal thing in the room.

“Well,” I say, forcing a semblance of calm, “shall we get some coffee? We’ve got a lot to figure out.”

She nods, drifting toward the kitchen, the tension in her posture telling me she’s as rattled as I am.

One thing’s certain: after last night, after the closeness we shared, there’s no going back to how things were before. And if Dean’s sudden arrival taught me anything, it’s that we can’t hide this forever.

Chapter 22

Isabel

Dean’s been uncharacteristically quiet since yesterday’s showdown. No calls. No texts. However, I can feel his influence in everything that’s happened since. In typical Maddox style, once he set his mind to it, he pulled the right strings at Club Greed. Now, here I am, smoothing my dress for the tenth time in the front seat of the SUV, listening to Lincoln’s slow exhale as he drives us through the city. The invitation to tonight’s VIP event practically fell into our laps this morning. There was no signature, but it was obviously my brother’s doing. Devereaux’s doing.

Lincoln shoots me a sideways glance, dark eyes full of concern. “You okay?”

I nod, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice. “Yeah, just… thinking.”

Thinking about Dean—who, despite his anger, immediately worked his magic to get us on Rolfe’s elusive guest list. Thinking about how this might be our only chance to corner Morris and figure out who’s threatening me. And, of course, thinking about Lincoln, who sits so close yet feels a million miles away since our little slip with Dean.

We haven’t had much time to process. Between yesterday’s confrontation and this sudden party invitation, we’ve been operating at full throttle. But I can’t ignore the slow tumble of my heart every time I glance at Lincoln. Maybe it’s the way he helped me zip up my dress tonight, or the memory of his arms around me the night before Dean barged in. Whatever it is, I’m in free fall, and I’m not sure if I’m excited or terrified.

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