I hear voices in the kitchen as soon as I step into the hallway. I know at once who it is. Even before I hear the childish giggle.
“That’s too cold! It tickles,” Isabella protests as I step into the kitchen.
She’s in her wheelchair parked at the far end of the island. Emery is kneeling next to her, a gallon bag of ice in her hands.
“But it will help,” Emery says. “Because you can’t sit in your wheelchair all night again.”
“It’s comfy, though,” Isabella argues.
Emery sighs and drapes the ice bag over Isabella’s little legs. “No, it’s not. You just don’t want the ice packs. But you need to lay down and stretch out. You’re sore today because you didn’t get good sleep last night. And the go-kart probably didn’t help.”
Isabella gasps. “Are you gonna let me ride in it still?”
“It’s not our toy. We’ll have to see what Mr. Adrik says about it, okay?”
I step into the kitchen and pad over to the fridge. “Mr. Adrik says you can ride go-karts as much as you want.”
Emery startles and jumps to her feet. “Jesus!”
Isabella just grins at me. “Right now?”
“No!” Emery interrupts quickly. “It’s already past your bedtime. You need sleep.”
“I’m not sleepy. And my legs hurt,” Isabella whines.
“Riding go-karts more won’t help them. So let me ice them, and then we can both go to bed.”
Isabella pouts out her lower lip, but slouches slightly, clearly giving in. Emery goes about laying hastily-made ice packs over Isabella’s legs, while also doing her damnedest to ignore my presence entirely.
I grab an apple out of the fridge and take a loud, crunching bite. “Did you two eat dinner?”
“Macaroni and cheese,” Isabella says, nodding happily. “The chef made it special.”
Emery looks back over her shoulder, but her eyes land on my feet, not my face. “No one needs to make her anything special. She can eat whatever everyone else is eating.”
“Then what’s the point of a personal chef?” I ask. “If not to personalize?”
“She’s already too picky,” Emery says firmly. “She needs to eat more than macaroni and cheese at every meal.”
“Will the chef cook for my dog?” Isabella asks.
“We might not be getting a dog, Bells. Remember? I told you earlier that it might not—”
“The dog can have filet mignon and caviar three meals a day if he wants,” I say. “He’ll live like a prince.”
“Or a princess,” Isabella says. “If her name is Pearl, then she’ll be a girl. If it’s a boy, then…” She scrunches up her face in concentration, her lips twisted to one side before she bursts out in another smile. “Travis!”
Emery snorts. “Travis?”
“It’s not funny!” Isabella shouts.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. Travis is a great name for a dog,” Emery says, stifling a laugh.
Isabella doesn’t look like she completely believes her mom, but she is so full of questions that she distracts herself easily enough.
“Where is your backyard? This place is big. I don’t see a back door,” she says. “We didn’t even have a back door at our house.”
Emery frowns. “Yes, we did. We had the sliding glass doors to the balcony.”
“But we didn’t have grass. We couldn’t have a dog.”
Emery pulls her top lip into her mouth, but doesn’t say anything else.
How many times did Isabella ask for a dog and Emery had to say no? Most women would be cowed into submission by my wealth and the house alone. By everything I can offer them.
Yet, even now, Emery is fighting. She won’t even look at me.
“Well, we have lots of grass here,” she says finally. “You can take Pearl—or Travis—on walks every day."
Isabella looks at me. "Sometimes, my wheels get stuck in the mud. And Mama doesn't want me on uneven ground in case I—"
"There’s a paved trail through the gardens,” I cut in.
Isabella's eyes sparkle blue. “I can tie the leash to my chair!”
“Well,” Emery says, “we have to be careful. The dog could pull you over.”
Isabella shakes her head. “No. It will be a good doggy. It will follow my rules.”
I haven’t spoken to a child since Yasha was small. But that was always different. Yasha was my brother. I never had to try with him; we just understood one another.
More importantly, he understood from an early age the horrors our life could hold. Too early of an age, as a matter of fact.
But Isabella is different.
She’s innocent. Pure and untainted.
Suddenly, she winces, and Emery jumps up. “Where does it hurt?”
Isabella tries to point, but her hand isn’t cooperating. It’s curled up to her chest feebly like a wilted flower.
“Use your words, baby,” Emery says, starting to panic. “Is it your leg?”
“My leg,” Isabella whimpers. “The bottom part.”
“Your calf?” Emery grabs her leg and begins massaging it. “Is this helping?”
Isabella is suddenly tense. Her smile from a moment ago is gone. Now, she’s gritting her teeth and sweating.
But with every stroke of Emery’s hand over her spasming muscles, she relaxes.
“Is that better?” Emery asks.
Isabella lets out a shaky breath and nods. “Better. But my back is—” She arches her back as best she can, but her mobility is limited.
“Oh, uh…” Emery looks around and then stands up. “I’ll get a pillow or—”
“Here.” I pull my shirt over my head so I'm left in just a gray undershirt.
I hold out the shirt, but Emery looks at it like it might be radioactive.
I sidestep her and move to Isabella. I fold the shirt in half and slide it behind her back, positioning it where she seems to be trying to stretch.
She smiles at me shyly when it’s tucked in place. “Thanks, Adrik.”
“That’s Mr. Adrik,” Emery interrupts. She looks at me. “And he didn’t need to do that.”
“Just Adrik is fine. And I know I didn’t. I did it because I chose to. It served me.”
“I can get her a pillow. And you can put your shirt back on.” Emery moves to tug the shirt out from behind Isabella’s back.
I intercept her arm. She spins around, her eyes as fierce and fiery as they were in the hallway earlier. One touch from me brought that heat right back to life. Now, it's burning inside of her.
She won’t last long like this.
“Leave it.”
“Her wheelchair is perfectly specified for the shape of her body. Malcolm paid for the best there was—”
“Malcolm can go fuck himself.”