Chapter 19
1589 Words
Isabella’s POV
I knew the moment something was wrong by the way the staff moved.
The Moretti household ran on quiet precision. Doors opened before you reached them. Tea appeared before you realised you wanted it. Problems were handled discreetly, efficiently, often before they became visible.
So when I came downstairs just after five and found two members of security near the front hall speaking in low urgent tones, I stopped halfway down the staircase.
One of them looked up.
Then instantly straightened.
Too late.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Nothing, Miss Moretti.”
“Wrong answer.”
He glanced toward the study.
My stomach tightened.
I walked the rest of the way down quickly and pushed open the study doors without knocking.
My father stood by the fireplace, phone in hand, expression carved from marble. Adrian leaned against the desk, arms folded, looking far too alert for someone who had supposedly “just dropped by.”
Both men turned.
There it was.
The look people get when deciding how much truth to give you.
“Tell me now.”
My father spoke first.
“Ryan attempted to enter the estate.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“He arrived at the gates twenty minutes ago demanding to see you.”
My pulse kicked hard.
“Is he still there?”
“No,” Adrian said coolly. “He was encouraged to reconsider.”
I looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means shouting at armed security is rarely productive.”
I stared between them.
“Why was he here?”
Neither answered quickly enough.
The answer landed before words did.
He knows.
My hand moved instinctively to my stomach.
My father noticed and his jaw hardened.
“How?”
Adrian pushed away from the desk.
“Someone photographed us leaving the clinic.”
Of course.
Of course they had.
No private entrance stayed private when scandal scented money.
I sank into the nearest chair.
“He thinks I’m pregnant.”
My father corrected calmly, “He suspects.”
“Same thing.”
“He does not know,” Adrian said. “And if we’re sensible, he still won’t.”
I looked up sharply.
“You think I should hide it?”
“I think you should protect it.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No,” he said evenly. “It’s smarter.”
My father set his phone down.
“Ryan arrived furious. Not concerned. Furious.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know men who lose control when access is denied.”
I hated when they made points that felt true.
Still, I said, “He has a right to ask.”
My father’s eyes flashed.
“He had a right to fidelity first.”
Silence followed.
Because betrayal complicated everything.
No moral question arrived clean anymore.
I stood again, restless.
“I need air.”
“Take security,” my father said immediately.
“I need air, not a convoy.”
Adrian picked up his jacket.
“I’ll walk with you.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You rarely do.”
The gardens behind the estate were vast enough to feel like countryside. Gravel paths wound through hedges, old stone walls, late summer flowers beginning to tire at the edges.
We walked in silence for several minutes.
I was grateful for it.
Eventually Adrian said, “You’re angry with the wrong part.”
“Meaning?”
“You’re angry he found out. You should be angry someone sold a photograph.”
“I can be angry at both.”
“Fair.”
I stopped near the lake.
Water moved softly under the evening light.
“I don’t know what the right thing is anymore.”
He stood beside me, hands in pockets.
“Good people often confuse right with painful.”
“That sounds suspiciously rehearsed.”
“It’s expensive wisdom. I charge others.”
I almost smiled.
Then the smile vanished.
“If I tell Ryan, he’ll demand involvement.”
“Yes.”
“If I don’t, I become the villain in his story.”
“You already are.”
I looked at him sharply.
He shrugged.
“In the story where he is misunderstood and everyone else is cruel? Yes.”
The bluntness hurt because it felt accurate.
“He wasn’t always like this.”
Adrian’s gaze stayed on the water.
“No one ever is. People become clearer under pressure.”
I wrapped my arms around myself.
“I loved him.”
“I know.”
“I might still love pieces of him.”
“That’s common.”
“I hate that.”
“That’s common too.”
I laughed once, weakly.
He glanced at me then.
“Tell me what you’re actually afraid of.”
I answered too quickly.
“That he’ll fight me.”
Adrian said nothing.
I swallowed.
“That he’ll look sorry and I’ll soften.”
Still nothing.
I closed my eyes.
“That part of me still wants the man I married to appear.”
His voice was gentle when it came.
“He already has.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“The man you married was real enough to love you once. He is also real enough to betray you now. Both can exist.”
The truth of it landed like cold rain.
I had been dividing Ryan into versions.
Good Ryan. Bad Ryan.
Past Ryan. Present Ryan.
But maybe there was only one man with different appetites depending on season.
Back at the house, Maria intercepted us in the hall.
“Miss Isabella.”
Her tone alone warned me.
“What now?”
“There is a parcel for you.”
She held out a small white box tied with navy ribbon.
No card visible.
My father appeared almost instantly from nowhere, which meant he’d been monitoring the hallway like a suspicious emperor.
“Who sent it?”
“No sender listed,” Maria said.
Adrian took the box from her hand before anyone could object.
“You all have delightful trust instincts.”
He opened it carefully on the console table.
Inside lay a baby blanket.
Soft cream cashmere.
And a note.
Our child deserves both parents.
Ryan
Every nerve in my body went hot.
My father’s expression became terrifyingly calm.
“He will regret that.”
“He’s guessing,” Adrian said, reading the note again. “Still no confirmation.”
I snatched the card.
“He sent a baby gift to force my hand.”
“Yes,” Adrian said. “Manipulation wrapped in wool.”
I wanted to throw it.
Instead, I held it tighter.
Because beneath the anger was something more dangerous.
Emotion.
He had imagined a child.
Our child.
The words on the card had done what they were designed to do.
Made it real in a different way.
My father saw it instantly.
“Burn it.”
“No.”
Both men looked at me.
I placed the blanket back in the box carefully.
“I’m not burning something innocent because he isn’t.”
Then I lifted my chin.
“I’m going to speak to him.”
“No,” my father said.
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I am not a hostage in your protection plan.”
“You are vulnerable.”
“I am pregnant, not incompetent.”
The room went very still.
I had said it aloud in front of Maria.
She burst into tears immediately.
“Oh, Miss Isabella.”
I nearly laughed despite myself.
My father rubbed a hand over his face.
“Wonderful. Now the household knows before I approve.”
“You don’t approve pregnancies,” I said.
“Apparently I approve nothing.”
Adrian’s mouth twitched.
I turned to him.
“Do not enjoy this.”
“Too late.”
Then I looked back at my father.
“I will meet Ryan. Public place. Controlled. One conversation.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer, voice low.
“He will use every softness you have left.”
“Then let me learn whether I still have any.”
We stared at each other.
A lifetime of love expressed mostly through stubbornness.
Finally he exhaled once.
“Security nearby.”
“Discreet.”
“Visible enough to discourage stupidity.”
“Fine.”
Adrian spoke before either of us could settle further.
“I’m coming.”
I frowned.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“This is not a field trip.”
“This is a man who arrived at gates shouting after receiving a rumour.”
I opened my mouth.
He added smoothly, “Also, I dislike him.”
I shut it again.
My father nodded.
“Agreed.”
Traitors.
I looked at both men and realised with sudden clarity that powerful protectiveness could be as suffocating as neglect.
Yet underneath the irritation was something I hadn’t felt in years.
Being valued.
Maria dabbed her eyes dramatically.
“I shall prepare tea.”
“No one needs tea,” I said.
“In this family,” she replied, “everyone needs tea.”
I almost laughed again.
Then my phone buzzed.
Ryan.
A text this time.
Tomorrow. Noon. Claridge’s lounge. Please. Just us.
I stared at the screen.
Then typed:
One hour.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Thank you.
I put the phone away.
Tomorrow, I would face the man who broke me.
And possibly tell him he was going to be a father.
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