Isabella's POV
Isabella stands in the middle of Adrian's living room and pretends it's already hers.
The space has massive high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, and furniture that costs more than most people's houses. Everything in shades of gray and white. Cold. Perfect. Untouchable.
Just like him.
She turns slowly, taking it all in. Her eyes land on the large blank wall above the fireplace. The one where a painting hangs now is something abstract, meaningless, forgettable.
She imagines something else there.
A photograph. Large. Framed in gold. Her and Adrian on their wedding day. Her in white, him in black. The perfect couple. The perfect life.
Soon, she tells herself. Soon.
This is only the second time she's been here. The first time was with Adrian's mother, Miriam, who showed her around like a future daughter-in-law should be shown. Miriam even gave her the secret pass code the family's private way of entering. A tradition at the estate. Visitors say the code, and the door opens.
Isabella memorized it immediately.
She walks through the living room, trailing her fingers along the back of the sofa. Imagining how she'll rearrange things. What will stay. What will go. What will be added to make this place truly hers.
"Miss Whitmore."
She turns.
Madam Nora stands at the edge of the room. The head of Adrian's household staff. Older, maybe sixty, with gray hair pulled back tight and eyes that miss nothing. She holds a tray with a glass of orange juice.
"I brought you a refreshment."
Isabella takes the glass. Doesn't thank her. Doesn't smile.
She sips the juice. It's fresh. Good. As it should be.
"Tell me," Isabella says, walking toward the windows. "What time does Adrian normally come home?"
Madam Nora's voice is calm. Respectful. "Mr. Sinclair returns when his work is complete. There is no set time."
Isabella stops walking.
She turns slowly. Faces the older woman.
"When his work is complete," she repeats. A small smile plays on her lips. "That's cute. Very... servant like."
Madam Nora says nothing. Her face remains neutral.
Isabella steps closer. The glass is still in her hand.
"You know," she says, voice light, almost playful, "you don't really deserve to work here."
Madam Nora's eyes flicker. Just slightly. Just once.
Isabella sees it. And smiles.
"Once I become madam of this house, I will get rid of you personally."
She raises the glass.
And pours the orange juice directly onto Madam Nora's face.
The older woman gasps. Steps back. Juice drips down her uniform, her hair, her face. She stands there, frozen, humiliated.
Isabella laughs
"Consider that a taste of what's coming."
The door slides open.
Isabella's head snaps toward it.
Adrian walks in.
Behind him, Harrison. And someone else. A woman. Small. Dressed in clothes that don't fit right. Looking around the penthouse like she's never seen anything like it, which she probably hasn't.
Isabella's smile returns. She smooths her dress. Puts on her performance.
She catwalks toward him, hips swaying, confidence radiating.
"Adrian. Finally."
He doesn't look at her.
He looks at Madam Nora. At the juice staining her uniform. At the humiliation on her face.
His jaw tightens.
"What happened here?"
Isabella waves a hand. "Nothing. Just teaching the help their place."
Adrian's eyes meet hers.
For a moment, something cold passes between them. Something dangerous.
Then he turns to Madam Nora.
"Go change. Take the rest of the day off."
Madam Nora nods. "Thank you, sir."
She leaves. Her back is straight despite everything. Isabella watches her go and feels a small thrill of satisfaction.
Then she turns to the other woman.
The one standing behind Adrian. The one who's been staring at the penthouse like a child in a candy store.
Isabella steps closer. Studies her.
And stops.
The face.
Something about it... familiar. But she can't place it. Can't remember where she's seen it before.
"Have we met?"
The woman looks at her. No fear in her eyes, interesting. Just quiet observation.
She shakes her head. "Not like we could ever cross paths."
The words are simple. But something in them stings.
Isabella opens her mouth to respond…
"Harrison."
Adrian's voice cuts through.
"Take her to her room."
Her room.
The words hit Isabella like a slap.
She watches as Harrison gently guides the woman toward the stairs. The woman, who is she? Why is she here? glances back once at Adrian, then disappears up the staircase.
Isabella turns to Adrian.
"Her room?"
He doesn't answer.
"Adrian. What does that mean? Her room? Who is she?"
He walks past her. Toward the bar. Pours himself a drink.
Isabella follows. Rage building.
"I asked you a question."
"And I heard you."
"Then answer me!"
He turns. Looks at her. That cold look again.
"Let's start with how you got in."
Isabella's anger flickers. Just for a moment. Then she smiles. Moves closer. Places a finger on his chest, trailing it down slowly.
"Your mother gave me the code. She wants me here. She wants us together." She looks up at him through her lashes. "Unlike you, she doesn't ignore my calls. She doesn't leave me waiting at restaurants for two hours."
Adrian doesn't respond to the touch. Doesn't lean in. Doesn't react at all.
He pulls out his phone. Dialed.
"This is Adrian Sinclair. Isabella Whitmore is no longer permitted entry to any Sinclair estate. Update security accordingly."
He hangs up.
Isabella stares.
"You—"
"You can leave now." His voice is calm. Dismissive. "Or you can stay and entertain yourself. But either way, you leave eventually."
He turns his back on her.
Something inside Isabella snaps.
She storms around him. Plants herself in his path.
"Who is that woman?"
They stare at each other. His eyes are unreadable. Hers are burning.
Finally, he speaks.
"She is my responsibility."
"Responsibility," Isabella repeats the word like it's poison. "Don't tell me she's—"
She stops. Can't even say it.
Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.
She looks toward the stairs. Think about that face. That familiar face.
"I will find out," she says quietly. "Whatever you're hiding, I will find out."
She grabs her bag. Walks toward the entrance. At the door, she stops. Turns.
Adrian stands where she left him. Drink in hand. Watching her like she's already gone.
"That face," Isabella says. "I know that face. I've seen it before. And I will remember where."
He says nothing.
She storms out.
The door slams behind her.
Outside, the night air hits her like a wall.
She gets in her car. Hands shaking. Heart pounding.
Something is wrong.
That woman. That face.
Where has she seen it before?
She grips the steering wheel. Thinks. Tries to pull the memory from wherever it's hiding.
But it won't come.
"Think, Isabella. Think."
Nothing.
She starts the car. Tires screech as she pulls away.
Driving too fast. Too angry. Too desperate.
That face.
Familiar.
Wrong.
She will find out. She always does.
And when she does.
Someone will pay.
Adrian's POV
The door closes behind Isabella.
For a moment, Adrian stands still. Listening to the silence settle back over the penthouse.
Then Harrison appears at the top of the stairs.
Adrian looks up.
"How is she?"
Harrison descends slowly. "She has a headache. The doctor said to expect that. She decided to sleep. But she'll be fine."
Adrian nods.
Harrison reaches the bottom of the stairs. Hesitates.
"Sir. About Miss Whitmore—"
"She won't be back."
"She'll try to find out about Miss Reyes."
Adrian looks at him. "Then make sure she doesn't."
Harrison nods. "Understood."
"No information. No records. Nothing that connects Elena to this place, to the accident, to any of it. Isabella doesn't get to touch her."
"And her father? The loan sharks?"
Adrian walks to the window. Stares out in the city.
"Handle it."
Harrison waits.
Adrian doesn't turn around.
"She asked me to save her," he says quietly. "Twice now. Once on the road. Once in the hospital."
"Sir?"
"No one has ever asked me that before."
Silence.
Then Harrison speaks, softer than usual.
"What are you going to do?"
Ad
rian looks at the city. At the millions of lights. At the millions of lives.
His eyes settle on the reflection of the stairs behind him. The path to the room where Elena sleeps.
"I'm going to save her."
He doesn't know why.
He doesn't know how.
But he knows it's the only thing that's mattered in five years.