Page 66 of Inevitable Endings
Isabella
Great. Nothing says ‘welcome’ like two armed goons and an elevator ride to Hell.
I probably shouldn’t lead with that, but as I step into the mirrored elevator, flanked by the two men who could break my neck with one hand, I figure I should at least get the record straight for myself.
The ride is silent, except for the quiet hum of the elevator and the steady rhythm of my own pulse drumming in my ears. My reflection stares back at me, composed, unshaken. Or at least, that’s what I hope I look like. The truth is, I feel like a deer walking into the lion’s den, except this lion has bodyguards, a private fortress, and an agenda I still can’t figure out.
I glance down at my outfit, intentional, like everything about tonight. A deep emerald silk blouse, tailored perfectly to skim my frame without being too suggestive. High-waisted black trousers, fitted but professional. A matching blazer, sharp-shouldered and structured, the kind of thing that makes you stand taller even when your stomach is tied in knots. My heels are just high enough to be commanding but not so high that I can’t run if I need to.
Not that running is an option.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open.
Showtime.
The moment the elevator doors glide open, the two men at my sides step forward in unison. No words, no glances exchanged—just pure, rehearsed efficiency. One moves ahead, the other stays behind me, their formation practiced and precise. A silent reminder that I am not in control here.
The hallway is nothing like I expected. No dark, brooding corridors, no obvious signs of criminal operations. Instead, it’s sleek. Expensive. A stretch of polished marble floors reflecting the glow of low-hanging lights, glass-paneled walls that give the illusion of openness while ensuring no one can see inside. The air is cool, scented faintly with something rich and smoky, cigars, maybe, or something more exotic.
At the far end, double doors.
One of the men reaches for the handle and pushes them open without hesitation.
I step inside.
The office is sprawling; wide windows offering a panoramic view of the city, the lights of New York glittering like scattered diamonds against the night. A modern fireplace flickers low against one wall, casting warm shadows across dark wood and leather. A fully stocked bar gleams in the corner, crystal decanters filled with amber liquid. Everything here is a contradiction, luxury built on violence, power dressed up as sophistication.
He decided to hold this conversation in a classy space, not what I expected.
And at the center of it all, Roman Tsepov.
He’s seated behind a massive desk, dark mahogany, nearly bare except for an ashtray, a glass of something dark, and a single, neatly stacked pile of documents. He leans back slightly, cigarette in hand, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as he watchesme enter.
His eyes, sharp, assessing, like he’s already dissected me in the seconds it took me to step inside. He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he lets the silence stretch, lets the weight of his gaze settle over me like a predator deciding if its prey is worth the chase.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he dismisses the men behind me.
They don’t question it. The door clicks shut, leaving only the two of us.
The lion and the deer.
But I am not here to be prey.
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze head-on.
Tsepov watches me for a moment, the smoke curling from his cigarette in lazy spirals. He takes his time, like he has all the power in the world, which, in this room, he does. The silence isn’t just silence. It’s deliberate. A test. A game.
Fine. I can play.
Without waiting for an invitation, I stride toward the chair opposite his desk and sit down, crossing one leg over the other. The leather is soft, expensive, the kind that molds to you in a way that makes you feel trapped rather than comfortable. I rest my hands on the armrests, keeping my posture relaxed, but my back straight. I won’t fidget. I won’t shrink.
His lips curve slightly at the boldness of my move, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he flicks the ash from his cigarette into the tray, then leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His fingers tap against the wood, slow and rhythmic.
“So,” he says at last, his voice low, smooth. “The infamous nurse with the red hair.”
I arch a brow. “You know, most people introduce themselves first before making observations.”
His smirk deepens, but there’s no warmth in it. “Most people don’t interest me.”
