The word hung in the air like a blade.
Wife.
My brain couldn't process it. Maxwell no, Dante had a wife?
"That's impossible," I breathed. "You said she should be dead."
Maxwell's jaw was granite. His eyes never left the monitor where the blonde woman stood, smiling at the camera like a predator who'd just cornered her prey.
"She was supposed to be," he said, his voice hollow. "I watched her die three years ago."
On screen, the woman his wife moved with eerie grace through the mansion. She trailed her fingers along the furniture like she was remembering every detail, every moment spent in this house.
"Dante," she purred into the camera. "I know you're watching. And I know you're not alone." Her eyes seemed to look directly at me through the screen. "Is that her? The little college girl who's been playing house with my husband?"
My blood ran cold.
Maxwell's fist slammed against the table. "Isabella."
"Isabella," I repeated, the name bitter on my tongue. "Your wife. The one who's supposed to be dead."
"It was a car accident," Maxwell said, his voice strained. "Her car went off a bridge. They found the wreckage, the body—" He broke off, his hands shaking. "I identified her body, Mia. I buried her."
"Then how—"
"I don't know." His voice cracked with something raw rage, fear, grief all tangled together. "But if Isabella's alive, then everything I thought I knew was a lie."
On the monitor, Isabella settled onto the leather couch my couch crossing her legs elegantly. She pulled out her phone.
Maxwell's phone buzzed.
He stared at it like it was a bomb.
"Answer it," I whispered.
His finger hovered over the screen. Then he pressed accept and put it on speaker.
"Hello, darling," Isabella's voice poured through, smooth as poison. "Miss me?"
"How are you alive?" Maxwell's voice was pure ice.
"Oh, Dante. Still so direct. I always loved that about you." She laughed—light, musical, wrong. "Let's just say my death was... greatly exaggerated."
"Why?"
"Why fake my death? Or why come back?" She paused, savoring the moment. "Both have the same answer, really. The Arrow Society wanted you to think I was gone. They needed you broken, vulnerable, easy to control. And it worked beautifully, didn't it?"
Maxwell's knuckles went white. "You were working with them. The whole time."
"Working with them?" Isabella's laugh turned sharp. "Darling, I wasn't working with them. I was working for them. I've always been Arrow Society. From the day we met."
The words hit like a physical blow. I watched Maxwell's face drain of color.
"Our marriage," he said slowly. "Everything—"
"Was an assignment. Yes." No remorse. No hesitation. "You were getting too good, Dante. Too dangerous. The Society needed someone close to you. Someone who could watch you, control you, and if necessary... eliminate you."
"But you didn't."
"No." Her voice softened, almost tender. "Because somewhere along the way, I made a mistake. I fell in love with you."
Silence.
Then Maxwell laughed bitter and broken. "You have a strange way of showing love, Isabella. Faking your death. Leaving me to grieve for three years."
"I didn't have a choice!" For the first time, emotion cracked through her veneer. "When you stole the ledger, they ordered me to kill you. My husband. The only person I've ever—" She stopped, collecting herself. "I couldn't do it. So I staged my death instead. Made them think I'd failed and paid the price. It was the only way to keep you alive."
"How noble," I cut in, unable to stay silent any longer. "So you're what—here to reconcile? Expecting him to just forgive you?"
Isabella's attention snapped to me. Through the screen, her eyes were ice.
"And you must be the reason he smells different," she said, her voice dripping venom. "Tell me, girl, does he touch you the way he used to touch me? Does he whisper your name when he—"
"Enough." Maxwell's voice cut like a whip. "Why are you here, Isabella?"
"Because everything's changed." Her tone shifted, businesslike. "The Society knows about your little college pet. They know she retrieved the ledger. And they know you're planning to go public." She leaned forward, her face filling the screen. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to give me that ledger. Tonight. And in exchange, I'll make sure they only kill you. The girl gets to live."
My stomach dropped.
"Not a chance," Maxwell said flatly.
"Then she dies screaming." No hesitation. No emotion. "I've seen what they do to people who cross them, Dante. You have too. Is she really worth that?"
Maxwell's eyes found mine. Something fierce blazed there possession, protection, something darker.
"Yes," he said simply.
Isabella went very still. Then she smiled slow and terrible.
"Wrong answer, darling."
The line went dead.
On the monitor, Isabella stood from the couch. She moved to the bookshelf the one hiding our location and pressed her palm against it.
"She knows where we are," I whispered.
"She's known the whole time." Maxwell was already moving, grabbing weapons from the safe, tossing me a knife. "The door's reinforced. It'll take her ten, maybe fifteen minutes to break through."
"Then what?"
"Then we run."
He pulled up a secondary exit on the laptop a service tunnel that led to an underground parking garage three blocks away.
"There's a car waiting," Maxwell said, strapping on a shoulder holster. "Keys in the ignition. We get there, we drive, we don't stop until we're across state lines."
"What about the ledger?"
"We take it with us." He grabbed the black folder. "We find another way to expose them."
"And Isabella?"
His jaw tightened. "I'll handle Isabella."
A metallic clang echoed through the safe room. Then another.
She was breaking through.
"We need to go," Maxwell said. "Now."
He opened the secondary exit a narrow tunnel even darker than the first. Emergency lights flickered on, casting everything in sickly yellow.
"Stay close," he ordered. "And if something happens to me—"
"Nothing's going to happen to you."
"If something happens," he repeated, his eyes boring into mine, "you take the ledger and run. There's a journalist named Sarah Chen. She's been investigating the Arrow Society for five years. You find her. You give her everything. Understand?"
"Maxwell—"
"Do you understand?"
"Yes."
Another clang louder this time. Closer.
"Go."
We plunged into the tunnel.
The passage was narrow, claustrophobic, the walls pressing in from both sides. I could hear Maxwell behind me, his breathing labored from his injuries.
"How far?" I gasped.
"Quarter mile. Keep moving."
My legs burned. My lungs screamed. But I pushed forward, the folder clutched against my chest, the knife in my other hand.
Behind us, a sound split the air—the screech of metal giving way.
She was through.
"Faster!" Maxwell urged.
The tunnel seemed endless. Just when I thought my legs would give out, I saw it a metal ladder leading up.
"There!" Maxwell pointed. "That leads to the garage. Go!"
I grabbed the rungs and climbed, my arms shaking with exhaustion. Behind me, Maxwell followed, moving slower because of his shoulder.
I reached the top and shoved against the hatch.
It didn't budge.
"It's stuck!" Panic edged my voice.
"Harder!"
I braced my feet and pushed with everything I had. The hatch groaned, then flew open.
Fresh air hit my face. I scrambled out into darkness a parking garage, just like Maxwell said. A single car sat in the corner, engine running.
I turned to help Maxwell up And froze.
Isabella stood at the bottom of the ladder, gun pointed directly at Maxwell's head.
"Hello, husband," she said sweetly. "Going somewhere?"