Kezia merely blinked, her gaze drifting past Vilem Horak to the ornate grandfather clock ticking steadily in the hall. Its brass pendulum swung with a soothing rhythm. "Midnight is a rather inconvenient hour for accounting, don't you think, Investigator?" she murmured, a faint line appearing between her brows, not from stress, but from the mild imposition to her evening. "One almost expects a pumpkin carriage."
Horak’s jaw worked, his patience clearly frayed. He swept out a moment later, his two agents shuffling after him, their uniforms still bearing the faint imprint of Jaro’s highly polished parquet. The heavy oak door thudded shut behind them, leaving the Kolar Manor in an abrupt, charged silence.
Jaro turned from the door, his posture rigid. He watched Kezia for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Zivko, who had been dozing by Kezia’s feet, stretched elaborately, then let out a low rumble, nudging her hand with his immense head. Kezia absently scratched behind his ears.
“The original manifests,” Jaro said, his voice deep and quiet. “Every shipping ledger, every customs form for the last ninety days. Do you remember where they are kept?”
Kezia waved a dismissive hand. “The archives, of course. Behind the old wine cellar. A dusty, dreadful place filled with cobwebs, I imagine. Not that I’ve ever been there. Why would I?” She paused, then tilted her head slightly. “They were Osian Hrubis Sr.’s favorite place to forge documents, weren’t they? Back when he attempted to ruin my father. A poetic sort of justice, perhaps, that the *original* documents from that very same era might expose his current machinations.”
Jaro’s expression softened, a fleeting warmth in his eyes. He crossed the expansive parlor, his movements economical, and knelt beside Kezia’s velvet-upholstered divan. He took her hand, his calloused thumb tracing the delicate veins beneath her skin. “Kezia,” he began, his voice barely a whisper, “you are not to worry. Not for a single moment. I will retrieve the manifests myself.”
Kezia scoffed, pulling her hand away gently. “Naturally you will. One would hardly expect *me* to venture into a dusty archive. My silk dressing gown would be ruined. My constitution, quite possibly, as well.” She stretched, languid as Zivko, then yawned. “Just ensure they are correct. We wouldn’t want any… unpleasantness.”
Jaro merely smiled, a strange, resolute curve to his lips. He rose, his gaze sweeping over her serene face, the soft folds of her gown. “The manifests are correct. They are pristine. I’ve maintained them myself, for years. Every signature, every date, every consignment noted by my own hand.” He walked to a towering mahogany bookcase, pulling a hidden lever that revealed a concealed safe. The heavy door swung open with a soft click.
From inside, he withdrew a series of thick, leather-bound ledgers. Their pages rustled faintly as he laid them on a nearby writing desk. Kezia watched, mildly intrigued. “So,” she prompted, “are you going to personally deliver them to Horak, then? Before midnight?”
Jaro shook his head slowly, his eyes meeting hers. There was a fierce, possessive glint in their depths. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “I am not.”
Kezia straightened, a flicker of genuine interest in her eyes. “Oh? And why ever not?”
“Because,” Jaro stated, his voice unwavering, “if those documents leave this house, if they pass into the hands of federal regulators, then the Hrubis family will know for certain that we intend to expose them. And they will, inevitably, come for you.” He walked back to the divan, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead. The scent of wood polish and clean linen clung to him. “I will not allow it. My greatest priority is your comfort. Your safety. Your absolute luxury.”
He returned to the desk, lifted the heavy ledgers, and placed them back inside the safe. He turned the dial, the tumblers clicking into place with a series of soft thuds. The hidden panel slid shut, leaving no trace of the vault. “If Horak returns, if he wants to arrest someone for ‘conspiracy,’ for ‘obstruction of justice,’ then he will arrest me. I will go to prison, Kezia. Happily. So long as you remain here, in this manor, undisturbed.”
Kezia stared at him, her impeccably arched brows rising a fraction. The sheer, unadulterated devotion in his voice, the absolute conviction in his eyes, was startling. It was the first time in years anyone had offered to sacrifice anything, much less everything, for her. An unfamiliar warmth bloomed in her chest, a sensation both foreign and undeniably pleasant. Her cold, calculating heart, usually so impervious, felt a peculiar, almost painful thrum.
Later, as the Morava Port twilight bled from hazy orange to a bruised purple over the industrial skyline, Jaro meticulously brushed Kezia’s long, raven hair. Each stroke was slow, deliberate, the silver bristles whispering against the fine strands. Kezia reclined against a pile of pillows on her elaborate vanity bench, watching his reflection in the polished mirror. The scent of jasmine oil filled the air.
“You always had the most magnificent hair, Kezia,” Jaro murmured, his voice soft, almost reverent. “Even when we were children, racing through the Vancura orchards. It would stream behind you like a dark current.”
Kezia offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “You were always so focused on getting mud on your trousers. I remember you once fell into the old cistern, trying to retrieve my father’s prize-winning plum.”
Jaro chuckled, the sound a low rumble in his chest. “I remember. And you stood on the edge, refusing to help, because you didn’t want to get your slippers wet.” He paused, his hands stilling in her hair. His eyes, in the mirror, met hers. They were dark, intense, burning with an emotion that made Kezia’s breath catch.
“Kezia,” he began, his voice dropping low, “this manor. Everything in it. I built it for you.”
Kezia’s reflection stared back, unblinking. “What do you mean, ‘for me’?”
“Every plank of polished oak, every pane of glass, every thread of linen. I spent years rebuilding it, restoring it, exactly as I imagined you would want it. A sanctuary. A place where you could be exactly as you are, without a single care in the world.” He moved his hands from her hair, gently cupping her face, his thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones. His gaze was unwavering, vulnerable. “I have loved you, Kezia Vancura, since we were children. Since before your father’s ruin. Since before you became… well, *you*. All I ever wanted was to give you back the world you lost, only better. A world where you never have to lift a finger, where you are always safe, always pampered.”
Kezia felt a strange, exquisite ache. Her throat tightened. This man, her strict childhood rival, her obsessively devoted husband, was willing to burn his empire, risk his freedom, simply to maintain her decadent indolence. The idea of him wasting away in some federal prison, scrubbing floors for the state instead of for her silken comfort, was suddenly unbearable. Her goal, fixed for so long on selfish luxury, twisted. She still yearned for opulence, yes, but now, it was for *their* opulent future. She would protect him. She would protect *them*. But not, she decided, with physical exertion. That would be absurd.
Later that evening, long after Jaro had retired to oversee the canning operations for the night, Kezia sat at her ornate desk, Zivko a warm weight against her feet. She picked up the heavy, old-fashioned rotary phone. Her fingers, adorned with diamonds, dialed a familiar number, the Kolar canning factory’s direct line.
“Get me Milena Hrubis,” Kezia stated, her voice cool and crisp. “Tell her Kezia Vancura would like to invite her to dinner. A private, apology dinner. Tonight. No, don’t take no for an answer. Tell her… tell her it’s about a new investment opportunity.”
Within the hour, a disheveled, vaguely suspicious Milena Hrubis stood in the Kolar Manor’s grand parlor, her eyes darting nervously around the opulent room. Kezia, swathed in sapphire silk, regarded her from her preferred lounging spot on a velvet settee. Zivko, massive and unimpressed, rested his chin on Kezia’s knee.
“Milena,” Kezia purred, a delicate crystal glass of amber liquid in her hand. “Do sit. I insist. Such an exhausting day you must have had, running around, inventing the future.” She gestured to a nearby armchair. “Some of Jaro’s finest plum wine, perhaps? It’s surprisingly good, for something made in this century.”
Milena eyed the wine glass warily, but her exhaustion seemed to win out over her paranoia. She sank into the armchair, her shoulders slumping. “What do you want, Kezia? I don’t have time for your games. My micro-processors are on the verge of a breakthrough, and Osian is badgering me about a new round of ‘investments’.”
Kezia took a slow sip of her wine, her eyes glinting mischievously over the rim of the glass. A wicked smile slowly spread across her lips. “Tell me, Milena,” she asked, her voice soft as silk, “in this 21st century of yours, do daughters go to prison for their fathers’ wire frauds?”