Chapter 65 WHO IS THIS MAN?
Chapter 65 WHO IS THIS MAN?
She followed him down the stairs like someone walking to an execution. No one stopped her. No one said goodbye.
Outside, night had settled thick and cool. Ivan’s car waited at the curb, black and unassuming. He opened the door for her, not chivalrously, but efficiently.
She climbed in.
The door closed with a final sound that echoed in her chest.
The drive was silent.
City lights blurred past the window as she stared straight ahead, tears drying on her cheeks. Ivan drove with one hand on the wheel, posture relaxed, as if this were just another errand.
“Where are we going?” she asked finally, voice hoarse.
“The airport.”
Her heart lurched. “I’m not leaving the country.”
He glanced at her briefly. “You are.”
She turned toward him, anger sparking through the fear. “You don’t get to decide my life.”
Ivan’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something close to curiosity.
“Your father already did,” he said. “I’m just collecting.”
The night sky loomed ahead, the moonlight glaring down at them. Estella’s chest tightened as reality closed in around her.
She wasn’t being taken.
She was being transferred.
Ivan parked, stepped out, and retrieved her bag himself. He didn’t rush her. He didn’t touch her. He simply waited, certain she would follow.
And she did. Because there was nowhere left to run.
The airport was quieter than she expected.
No chaos. No rush. Just a low hum of movement, polished floors reflecting soft white lights, the scent of coffee and disinfectant hanging in the air. Estella walked beside Ivan with her bag clutched to her chest, every step feeling borrowed, temporary, like she was moving through someone else’s life.
Before she could even process where they were headed, Ivan reached for the handle of her suitcase. She'd managed to take it from him earlier and now he wanted if back, why?
She tightened her grip instinctively. “I can carry it.”
He didn’t argue. He simply took it from her hands, firm and final, as though the option had never existed.
“I’ll handle it,” he said.
Something about that unsettled her more than if he had barked an order. Men like her father’s associates always traveled with shadows. Bodyguards. Right hands. Armed men who cleared paths and watched corners. Ivan had none.
No entourage, no protection either, It was just him.
They passed through a private terminal entrance without stopping.
The staff greeted Ivan with polite efficiency, not warmth, not fear…
It was the kind of recognition that came from instruction, not familiarity.
“Good evening, sir,” the pilot said, offering a nod. “We’re ready for departure.”
Ivan returned the nod. “Thank you.”
The air hostess smiled at Estella, professional and neutral. “Welcome.”
Ivan didn’t allow the hostess to reach for the suitcase. When she gestured toward it, he adjusted his grip instead and walked ahead, leading the way down the short runway.
That was when Estella noticed it fully.
No guards flanking them. No men scanning the horizon. No convoy waiting beyond the gate.
Just a sleek private jet, black and silver, lights glowing softly against the darkening sky.
Her stomach twisted. What sort of man is this?
The jet interior was quiet, minimalist, leather seats and dark wood finishes, a small table set neatly with bottled water and folded newspapers. Ivan placed her suitcase near the doorway himself before motioning her inside.
“Sit wherever you like,” he said.
She chose a seat by the window, needing something solid to anchor her. Ivan closed the door behind them, secured it, then turned without another word and disappeared into the small bedroom at the back of the jet.
The door shut.
And didn’t open again.
The engines hummed to life, the plane rolling forward, lifting smoothly into the air. Estella sat rigid, fingers digging into the armrest, her thoughts racing in uneven spirals.
He hadn’t said anything else.
No warnings. No instructions. No threats.
She exhaled slowly and reached for the stack of magazines on the table, more out of nerves than curiosity. She flipped one open and immediately frowned.
Russian.
All of it. Headlines, captions, dense columns of text she couldn’t decipher. She shut it and tried another. Same thing.
Useless.
She dropped it back onto the table and crossed her legs, her body tight with the growing pressure in her bladder she had been ignoring since the drive. She hesitated, glancing toward the bedroom door.
Still closed.
She stood and walked carefully toward the small bathroom near the front of the jet, locking the door behind her. The mirror reflected a woman she barely recognized. Pale. Eyes too bright. Lips pressed tight.
She splashed water on her face, breathed through the nausea, steadied herself.
When she stepped back into the cabin, she froze.
Ivan was no longer in the bedroom.
He sat in the seat she had been occupying moments earlier, one long leg crossed over the other, a newspaper unfolded in his hands. Russian again. His posture was relaxed, as if he had always been there.
He lowered the paper slightly and looked at her.
“Sit,” he said.
She hesitated, then moved to the opposite chair, her pulse pounding.
“I need to ask you questions,” Ivan continued calmly. “About Dante Marchetti.”
Her lips parted in disbelief. “Since when does a husband like hearing about the ex boyfriend?”
Ivan lowered the newspaper just enough for his eyes to meet hers fully.
The look unsettled her.
It wasn’t anger. Not jealousy. Not even irritation.
It was assessment. Cool, precise, as if he were measuring something internal and finding it lacking.
“From what I heard,” he said, voice even, “Dante Marchetti didn’t have a girlfriend until Anya Ivanov.”
The name landed like a blow.
Estella’s breath caught sharply in her chest.
Ivanov.
Her mind scrambled, memory surfacing unbidden. Anya.
Ivanov.
She stared at Ivan, her heart thudding violently, waiting for something. Clarification. Explanation.
He raised the newspaper again, resuming his reading as if the conversation had ended.
But Estella couldn’t move.
Her thoughts reeled, colliding, rearranging. Ivan. Ivanov. Russian. The coincidence felt too sharp, too deliberate to be ignored.
Was it a coincidence?
She swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to his face, searching for a resemblance, but he didn’t look up again.
The paper rustled softly in his hands as the jet cut through the sky, carrying her farther from everything she had known.
And closer to something she didn’t yet understand.