Chapter 12
914 Words
Isabella’s POV
The dress was too beautiful for the mood I was in.
Ivory silk spilled across the fitting-room platform in elegant folds, the neckline soft, the waist cut perfectly, the kind of gown made for women with uncomplicated lives and expensive smiles.
I looked like neither.
“It’s stunning,” Maria declared.
“It’s aggressive,” I said.
The seamstress paused mid-pin.
“Miss Moretti?”
“Sorry. I’m grieving and dramatic.”
Maria waved a hand. “Continue pinning.”
I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
For six years I had dressed smaller than myself. Softer colours. Simpler cuts. Clothes Ryan described as tasteful, understated, appropriate.
Translation: invisible.
Now three women were fitting me for a gala dress while my father turned my divorce into a re-entry campaign.
Life moved strangely fast once it stopped asking permission.
The boutique had been closed privately for us. Rails of couture lined the walls. Champagne sat untouched on silver trays. Staff floated silently like well-dressed ghosts.
My father believed privacy could be purchased.
Often, he was right.
“You need something sharper,” a voice drawled from the doorway.
I turned.
Adrian Vale leaned against the frame in dark trousers and an open-collar shirt, looking deeply pleased with himself.
“This is a fitting room,” I said.
“I was invited.”
“By whom?”
“Your father. Which means by tyranny.”
Maria beamed. “Mr. Vale, good afternoon.”
Traitor.
Adrian walked in, eyes moving to the dress, then to me.
His gaze lingered a second too long.
“That one.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know. I’m volunteering excellence.”
The seamstress tried not to smile.
I stepped down from the platform carefully.
“What are you doing here?”
“Lunch.”
“With me?”
“If you behave.”
I folded my arms. “I’m not sure I like how often you assume I’m available.”
He tilted his head.
“I’m not sure I like how often you pretend you’re not interested.”
Heat rose in my cheeks.
Maria coughed suspiciously into her hand.
“I’m surrounded by enemies,” I muttered.
Adrian’s expression softened slightly.
“How are you today?”
The question, simple and genuine, caught me off guard.
“Fine.”
“A lie.”
“Functional, then.”
“Better.”
He held out his hand.
“Come eat.”
I looked at the dress.
At the pins.
At the mirror reflecting a woman I was still getting used to.
Then I took his hand.
The restaurant overlooked a private garden hidden behind high walls. White tablecloths. Quiet money. Staff who knew how not to stare.
Adrian ordered for himself. Let me order for myself. Points awarded.
When the waiter left, he said, “Ryan bought a gala table.”
I nearly choked on water.
“He what?”
“He’s trying to attend.”
“Can he?”
“Anyone can attend if they donate enough.”
I stared at him.
“Of course he is.”
“He wants to see whether you’re bluffing.”
“About what?”
“That you’re leaving him. That you’ve changed. That someone else can stand beside you.”
My appetite disappeared.
“I’m not interested in games.”
“Good. Because this isn’t a game to him.”
I looked down at the tablecloth.
“I hate that he still gets into my head.”
Adrian’s voice lowered.
“He gets into your history. Not your future.”
I met his eyes.
There was something steady in him. Dangerous, yes. Sharp. But steady.
“I don’t know how to be this person again,” I admitted quietly. “Isabella Moretti. Public. Polished. Untouchable.”
He leaned back.
“Then don’t.”
“What?”
“Be Isabella who survived him. Be Isabella who learned. Be Isabella who bites when necessary.”
I laughed.
“You make reinvention sound fun.”
“It can be.”
His phone buzzed. He ignored it.
Mine buzzed too.
Unknown number.
I sighed. “Persistent ghost.”
“Answer it.”
“I’d rather chew glass.”
“Then speakerphone. Let’s be entertained.”
I gave him a look, then answered.
“What?”
Ryan’s voice came through instantly.
“Bella.”
My spine stiffened.
“Don’t call me that.”
A pause.
“Can we meet?”
“No.”
“Please.”
I stared out at the garden.
“No.”
“I ended things with Chloe.”
Adrian slowly sipped his water, expression unreadable.
“That was your decision,” I said. “Not my reward.”
“Isabella, I made mistakes.”
“Mistakes misplace keys. You betrayed vows.”
“Just hear me out.”
“No.”
“Who are you with?”
I smiled despite myself.
“Someone who knows how to ask permission before interrupting lunch.”
I ended the call.
Adrian’s mouth curved.
“Cruel.”
“Efficient.”
“Beautifully done.”
I should have felt guilty.
Instead, I felt lighter.
The waiter returned with food.
For the first time in days, I realised I was hungry.
As he placed the plates down, Adrian said casually, “By the way, your ex just hired a PR firm.”
I blinked.
“To do what?”
“Repair his image.”
I picked up my fork.
“Then I hope they’re miracle workers.”
- Writer
