The sun hangs at its zenith—blinding, brazen—as if it deliberately wants to peer through the window and check who I am now. Our plane glides smoothly toward landing at Teterboro Airport. The wheels haven't touched the ground yet, but inside me everything already has—my heart, my breathing, my doubts.
Kaiden smiles. His smile always comes a split second before his words, as if he already knows the answer and asks anyway.
"How was the flight, Isabella?"
He takes my hand. His fingers are warm, confident. Too confident for a casual question.
"It's the best plane I've ever flown on," I answer sincerely.
And it's true. The polished wood, the flawless design, the seats that adjust to your body like a well-mannered lover. Everything here is made to make you relax… and let your guard down.
I catch myself looking at Kaiden longer than necessary. Too closely. Too softly.
When did this start?
Maybe getting involved with Christian Grayson and his spy games was a mistake.
Maybe I was wrong to think I could play without getting pulled in.
The plane stops. The door opens. New Jersey air rushes inside—hot, dense, smelling of asphalt and big money. We step onto the stairs. Below, a limousine is already waiting—black, long, like a promise of happiness.
"So where to now?" I ask, genuinely curious… and wary.
Kaiden tilts his head slightly, studying me. He always does that when he's about to say something important but hasn't decided whether it's now or later.
"Are you very tired?"
"Not at all," I smile. "The flight was perfectly comfortable."
Suspiciously comfortable.
He nods, as if making a mental note.
"Do you remember how we met at that contemporary art exhibition in Santerra?"
I laugh—quietly, almost intimately.
"Of course I remember," I say out loud.
And to myself I add: I prepared for that meeting carefully. Like a professional guide. To win you over, Kaiden, with my competence.
"Then you'll love the Museum of Modern Art."
I don't hold back. I clap my hands like a child and practically throw myself into his arms. My bag slips a little; I feel his body closer than I've ever allowed before. He looks slightly embarrassed—rare for him—but I can tell: he likes my reaction. He always does.
Dangerous knowledge.
**
MoMA greets us with cool air, silence, and the feeling that thoughts sound louder here than words. We walk side by side—sometimes shoulder to shoulder, sometimes a step apart—as if testing how comfortable it is for us to be close in public.
The Persistence of Memory, Dalí.
I look at time melting and think about how easily I lose control around Kaiden.
Drowning Girl, Lichtenstein.
Is it me? Or am I only pretending?
White on White, Malevich.
Emptiness packed with meaning. Like my pauses beside him.
Matisse. Mondrian. Monet.
Color, rhythm, calm—and a constant tension under the skin.
At Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, I catch his gaze. He isn't looking at the painting. He's looking at me.
I feel it on my skin, along my spine, in my breathing.
Does he see me?
Or do I just want him to?
Hours fly by unnoticed.
Van Gogh. Warhol. Wyeth.
Several hours of pure, overwhelming impression.
I stop and look at Kaiden for real. Without play. Without masks.
And suddenly I understand:
He truly loves me.
And I…
I'm playing with him.
Why?
The feeling is new, unfamiliar, almost frightening. Not guilt. Not fear.
Something deeper.
What if I lose this game first?
Kaiden steps closer, leans toward me, and asks softly:
"What are you thinking about right now, Isabella?"
I open my mouth to answer…
and realize that any honest answer will change everything.
**
After the museum, our limousine glides to a soft stop outside The Wall Street Hotel New York City.
The building looks at me with the calm, assured gaze of someone who never asks whether you can afford this. It simply knows: if you're here, you can.
Five stars.
They don't need to be displayed — you feel them on your skin.
A spacious lobby. Deep armchairs you want to sink into and forget who you were before this moment. The interior speaks quietly, but expensively. Voices are never raised here — people are used to being heard.
I walk beside Kaiden… and feel like a queen.
Ridiculous, right?
A simple girl — and suddenly this.
I want to laugh with happiness and, at the same time, hide behind a column from shame.
And again — that stab of guilt.
Why am I doing this to you, Kaiden?
We enter La Marchande. The light is soft here, almost intimate. I slide onto a curved sofa — it feels like an arm around my back, inviting me to relax and surrender to the moment.
Kaiden orders French dishes. Confidently. Without a menu.
A hopeless romantic… or a man who controls every detail.
I catch myself replaying the day like scenes from an expensive film:
Night in Santerra with Kaiden.
Morning — a private jet.
Day — the Museum of Modern Art.
Evening — La Marchande.
And ahead — a night in a suite at The Wall Street Hotel.
I'm in a fairy tale.
There's no other explanation.
I watch Kaiden eat. Aristocratic. Restrained. His hands are calm, precise.
God… I'm falling in love. For real. And that scares me more than anything.
What happens if we break up?
The thought strikes out of nowhere.
It would probably break my heart.
I take a sip of wine — and at that moment an elegant man in a perfectly tailored suit approaches our table.
Kaiden rises immediately.
"Evan Clayton, my good friend," he says warmly.
And then, almost without thinking:
"Isabella Delacour. My love."
The word love hangs in the air.
For a second, I can't breathe.
Evan sits down. His gaze is sharp, attentive, too intelligent. Kaiden falls silent, giving him space.
"Where do I even begin, Kaiden…" Evan says tensely, running a hand over his forehead.
And then — straight, without preamble:
"Can we trust her?"
He points at me.
Everything inside me goes numb.
That's it.
I've been exposed.
My body stiffens. I feel myself going pale. My heart pounds as if it wants to betray me all on its own.
"Absolutely," Kaiden answers without a flicker of doubt.
One word.
And it almost saves my life.
Evan studies me. For a long time. Too long. I barely breathe.
"All right, Kaiden," he finally says. "Your order to acquire shares of Quantec Innovations isn't going according to plan."
Kaiden snaps his napkin onto the table.
"What?"
"Someone is getting ahead of us in the purchases. We can't hold the price corridor. The deal between Hyperion Trust and Quantec Innovations may cost us far more than expected."
I go cold.
"Who leaked the information?" Kaiden asks. There is fury in his eyes.
Does he already know?
Is he looking at me?
"Bring in security," Kaiden says harshly. "The dark player will go for an over-the-counter deal. He'll try to sell the block at an inflated price."
"So someone knew we'd pay even a premium," Evan concludes grimly. "We've been robbed, Kaiden. And we need to find… and punish those responsible."
I feel sick.
The world tilts slightly.
But I pull myself together.
I lean toward Kaiden. Slowly. Smiling. My hand rests on his — far too intimate for a business conversation.
"Maybe we shouldn't ruin the evening with work talk," I whisper. "Let's go upstairs… and just enjoy life, my dear Kaiden."
I lean closer still, leaving just one breath between us. The promise of a kiss hangs in the air.
Evan stands.
"Sorry, Kaiden. I didn't mean to spoil your evening."
He leaves.
Kaiden looks at me as if there is no one else in the world. His hand settles on my waist. Possessive. Warm.
"Let's go," he says quietly.
He leads me to the suite.
Maybe…
Maybe I can still save my life.
And perhaps — his heart too.