Chapter 64 COLLECT

Chapter 64 COLLECT


Estella sat with her legs crossed at the ankle, spine straight, hands folded in her lap like she had been trained to do since childhood. The living room smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive candles, the kind her mother liked to light when guests arrived. Everything was arranged for appearances. The cream sofa. The glass table. The family portraits staring down from the walls like witnesses who would never speak.

Her mother sat to her right, composed, lips painted a soft pink that never smudged. Her father stood near the fireplace, a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand. And across from Estella, occupying the armchair as though it had been built for him alone, sat the stranger.

She had noticed him the moment he walked in.

Not because he was loud. He wasn’t. Not because he demanded attention. He didn’t. It was the opposite. He sat back, long legs spread slightly, broad shoulders relaxed, as if none of this concerned him. As if the room existed for his convenience.

His suit was dark and unremarkable, tailored without vanity. His hands rested loosely on his thighs, strong hands, scarred knuckles, the kind that had learned violence early and never forgotten it.

Her father introduced him as Ivan.

She knew his name now, but when she had first seen him earlier that evening, standing near the hallway with her father, she had only known that he made the air feel heavier. That something about his presence dulled everything else. Conversations softened when he passed. Laughter thinned. People became careful.

It has taken her enough time to conclude what she thought of him but she hasn't found the answer yet.

Now, sitting here, she felt his eyes on her again.

Not roaming. Not curious.

Fixed.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t pretend politeness. His gaze rested on her with the detached focus of someone assessing an object they already owned but had not yet claimed. It unsettled her more than hunger would have.

“This is Ivan,” her father said, breaking the silence. His voice carried authority, practiced and calm. “Ivan Volkov.”

The man inclined his head slightly, acknowledgment without warmth.

“Russian mafia Don,” her father added, as if announcing a title at court.

Estella’s fingers tightened in her lap. She's been surrounded by Mafia men since the day she was born.

Ivan’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes flicked briefly to Reyes, a silent correction. Titles were unnecessary. He knew who he was.

“You’ll be wedded to him,” Reyes continued, as though discussing a merger instead of a life.

The words struck Estella like a slap.

She stood so abruptly that the chair legs scraped loudly against the floor.

“No,” she said, breath sharp in her chest. “Absolutely not.”

Her mother flinched, just slightly, but didn’t intervene.

“I will marry Dante,” Estella said, voice shaking but loud enough to fill the room. “That’s already been decided, Dante Marchetti not Ivan Volkav.” she said getting his name wrong on purpose

Her father turned to look at her fully now, his gaze cool, unimpressed.

“Well,” Reyes said, taking a measured sip of his whiskey at last, “Dante is not interested in you, is he?”

The sentence landed with surgical precision.

Estella felt something inside her crack. Not loudly. Quietly. The way bone fractures under pressure before the pain even arrives.

“That’s not true,” she whispered.

Her father’s mouth curved faintly. Not a smile. A confirmation.

“You were convenient,” he said. “Not chosen.”

She shook her head, backing away instinctively. “You can’t do this. You can’t sell me.”

Reyes set his glass down with a soft clink.

“I already have.”

Her breath stuttered. Her eyes burned.

She turned toward her mother, desperation spilling through her composure. “Mamá?”

Her mother looked away.

That was worse than any answer.

A sob tore from Estella’s throat before she could stop it. She spun toward the hallway, instinct screaming at her to run, to disappear, to put walls and doors and distance between herself and this room.

She made it two steps before a hand closed around her arm.

“Hank,” she gasped. “Let me go!”

Her brother stood behind her, grip firm but not rough. His face was close to hers, eyes dark, expression tight with something that might have been regret once.

“Behave,” he murmured near her ear. “And everything will be fine.”

She stared at him, disbelief hollowing her chest. How could he stand there and let this happen? He didn't even warn her.

“You’re letting this happen,” she whispered.

Hank’s jaw flexed. He didn’t deny it.

Her knees threatened to give out.

She felt it then, the shift in the room. Ivan stood.

He was taller than she expected. Broader, once again he took her by surprise. He moved with unhurried confidence, the kind that came from knowing nothing in this room could be denied to him. When he spoke, his voice was low, accented, and utterly devoid of emotion.

“Get your bags.”

Estella looked at him, stunned. “What?”

“We’re leaving,” he said.

She laughed once, sharp and hysterical. “You think I’m going anywhere with you?”

Ivan regarded her calmly. His eyes were cold, but not cruel. Indifferent. Which was somehow worse.

“You have ten minutes,” he said. “Bring what you need.”

Her father didn’t object. Her mother didn’t look up. Hank released her arm.

The decision had already been made.

She turned and ran up the stairs, tears blurring her vision. Her bedroom felt suddenly unfamiliar, like a place she was already being evicted from. She slammed the door shut and pressed her forehead against it, breathing hard.

Ten minutes.

She moved mechanically. Opened her suitcase. Her hands shook as she pulled open drawers.

She ignored the jewelry box. Gold and diamonds meant nothing now. She grabbed clothes without thought, shoving them in. A pair of jeans. A sweater. The black dress she loved but rarely wore. She hesitated, then reached under her bed and pulled out the small wooden box she had kept hidden since she was sixteen.

Inside was a folded photograph of her and her mother before everything hardened. A pressed flower, brittle with age. A worn paperback book, its spine cracked, margins filled with notes in her handwriting. It was the first thing she had ever loved that hadn’t been given to her.

She tucked the box into her bag.

Her hands hovered for a moment, then she grabbed the scarf Dante had once given her, fingers lingering on the fabric before stuffing it in as well. A mistake. Maybe. But she couldn’t leave it behind.

A knock sounded at the door.

Not impatient. Certain.

She opened it.

Ivan stood there, filling the doorway, coat already on. He glanced once at the bag in her hand.

“Time is up,” he said.