Chapter 10
1059 Words
Isabella’s POV
I had met Adrian Vale twice before.
Once at nineteen, when he’d shaken my hand at a charity dinner and told me I looked bored.
Once at twenty-two, when he’d caught me sneaking out of another gala barefoot with my heels in hand and offered to buy me trainers.
I had liked him both times.
Which was inconvenient now.
“You’re staring at the invitation like it insulted you,” my father said.
“It has.”
We were in the breakfast room the next morning, sunlight pouring through tall windows, silver laid perfectly on linen, enough food for ten people and my appetite still missing.
On the table between us sat a black envelope embossed in gold.
The Moretti Foundation Annual Gala
Three weeks away.
Attendance mandatory, apparently.
“I’m not ready to be paraded around a ballroom.”
“You are not livestock,” my father said dryly. “You are my daughter.”
“Same energy.”
He ignored that.
“You need to be seen.”
“I need sleep.”
“You need both.”
I sipped tea and glared at the envelope.
My father calmly buttered toast like he hadn’t just volunteered me for public spectacle.
“Did Adrian ask to escort me,” I asked, “or did you assign him like transport?”
“He offered.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
My father almost smiled.
“He respects you.”
“I’m freshly separated, emotionally unstable, and carrying enough humiliation to sink a yacht.”
“Then you will have plenty to discuss.”
I laughed despite myself.
Before I could answer, Maria entered with my switched-on phone resting on a tray like it was dangerous.
“Miss Isabella, this has rung twelve times in the last hour.”
I looked at the screen.
Ryan.
Ryan.
Ryan.
Ryan.
Blocked numbers attempting through unknown lines.
Emails.
Messages.
Voicemails.
I pushed the tray away.
“Make it disappear.”
Maria nodded with approval.
“Excellent choice.”
My father looked amused.
“Still terrifying.”
“She helped raise me.”
“That explains your stubbornness.”
The intercom near the door chimed.
A member of staff spoke softly through it.
“Miss Moretti, Mr. Vale has arrived.”
I nearly choked on tea.
“He’s here now?”
My father checked his watch.
“Prompt. Good sign.”
“I’m in pyjamas.”
“You own robes.”
“Papa.”
But it was too late.
Footsteps approached.
Then Adrian Vale walked into the breakfast room like he’d been designed by expensive fiction.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark suit without tie. Black hair slightly too long. Eyes the colour of storm clouds and twice as unsettling.
He looked at me once and smiled slowly.
“Barefoot gala girl.”
I stared.
“You remember that?”
“You threatened to throw a heel at a duke. Memorable evening.”
My father gestured to a chair.
“Sit.”
Adrian ignored the chair and came to kiss my cheek lightly.
“Isabella.”
He smelled like cedar and trouble.
“Adrian.”
He stepped back, studying my face with irritating accuracy.
“You’ve been crying.”
“Wonderful. Good morning to you too.”
“You still look beautiful.”
My father made a sound of impatience.
Adrian finally sat.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” he said.
“For what?”
“You’re divorcing badly.”
I blinked.
Then laughed so suddenly tea nearly came out my nose.
My father muttered, “I dislike him.”
“You chose him,” I reminded him.
“Temporary lapse.”
Adrian leaned back, gaze never leaving me.
“I also hear Ryan Cole is imploding.”
“Then the morning isn’t a total waste,” I said.
Approval flashed in his eyes.
That dangerous warmth deepened.
There was something about Adrian that made rooms feel smaller and more interesting.
“You came to mock my ex?” I asked.
“I came to ask if you’d attend the gala with me.”
Straight to it.
No awkward build-up.
No false sympathy.
Just a direct hit.
“I thought my father already volunteered me.”
“He did.” Adrian folded one hand over the other. “I’m asking if you agree.”
That mattered more than it should have.
I glanced at my father.
He was suddenly fascinated by marmalade.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for whispers.”
Adrian shrugged.
“Then let them whisper.”
“I don’t want pity.”
“You won’t get it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because when you walk into a room, pity is not the first emotion people feel.”
Heat touched my cheeks.
I hated that he noticed.
“What is?”
He looked at me for one deliberate second too long.
“Curiosity.”
My father stood.
“I have calls.”
Coward.
He left us alone with suspicious speed.
I turned back to Adrian.
“You enjoy making people uncomfortable.”
“Only arrogant men and interesting women.”
“And which am I?”
“Yes.”
I laughed again despite myself.
That felt dangerous too.
He softened then, voice lowering.
“Isabella, you do not have to decide today. But hiding in this house while Ryan rewrites the story would be a mistake.”
My smile faded.
Because he was right.
Men like Ryan always narrated first if allowed.
“He’ll tell people I was emotional,” I said quietly. “Difficult. Cold. Influenced by my father.”
“Then show them calm, elegant, untouched.”
“I am not untouched.”
“No,” Adrian said softly. “But you can still be untouchable.”
Silence settled between us.
For the first time since everything shattered, the future didn’t look like a black hole.
It looked uncertain.
Sharp-edged.
Alive.
My phone buzzed from the tray Maria had abandoned.
Unknown number.
I answered before thinking.
“Hello?”
There was heavy breathing.
Then Chloe’s voice.
“You think you’ve won because you’re rich?”
My grip tightened.
“No,” I said evenly. “I think I’ve won because he was never worth keeping.”
Then I ended the call.
Adrian’s mouth curved.
“I’m definitely taking you to the gala.”
- Writer
