Chapter 16
1569 Words
Isabella’s POV
I had never enjoyed watching people unravel.
That was the first lie I told myself as the television volume filled the morning room.
Ryan stood outside Cole Enterprises surrounded by cameras, jaw clenched, security trying and failing to control the chaos while Chloe performed heartbreak in designer sunglasses.
“Ryan says many things when he thinks women belong to him.”
The clip replayed again.
And again.
And again.
Every channel wanted the line.
Every presenter wanted the scandal.
Every analyst wanted to discuss how a personal disaster had become a corporate one.
I sat curled into the corner of a cream sofa with tea cooling untouched in my hands and felt something complicated bloom inside me.
Vindication.
Grief.
Disgust.
A sharp, ugly satisfaction.
Maria clicked her tongue from the doorway.
“She’s good,” she said.
“At lying?”
“At timing.”
I looked up.
“You approve?”
“I respect efficiency.”
Then she left before I could answer.
I almost smiled.
Across the room, my father lowered the financial paper he was reading.
“Markets dislike humiliation,” he said calmly.
“Is that concern or pleasure?”
“Yes.”
I stared at the television again.
Ryan was trying to speak now.
Trying to reclaim authority with clipped statements and controlled posture.
I knew that version of him intimately.
The man who believed tone could erase truth.
“Turn it off,” I said quietly.
My father raised a brow.
“You were watching carefully.”
“I know. Turn it off.”
He did.
Silence rushed into the room.
Too much silence.
I placed the teacup down before my hands could spill it.
“I don’t feel better.”
My father folded the newspaper.
“Revenge rarely arrives dressed as healing.”
“I’m not asking for revenge.”
“No,” he said. “You are asking for peace. Unfortunately, people often confuse the roads.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
Last night I had dreamed of the penthouse.
Not the betrayal.
Earlier days.
Ryan barefoot in the kitchen making coffee badly.
Ryan asleep on the sofa with reports across his chest.
Ryan kissing my forehead while saying, “Stay with me a little longer.”
Memory was cruel like that. It curated tenderness after violence.
A knock sounded.
Bianchi entered carrying two folders and the expression of a man who lived exclusively in complications.
“Apologies for the interruption.”
My father gestured for him to continue.
“Chloe Bennett has retained counsel.”
I opened one eye.
“Of course she has.”
“She is considering claims relating to emotional distress, reputational damage, and implied promises.”
My father looked amused.
“She wants paying.”
“Yes.”
“And Ryan?”
Bianchi’s mouth thinned.
“Ryan Cole is denying all formal commitments and privately requesting settlements.”
I laughed once.
“Perfect. They deserve each other.”
Bianchi placed one folder on the table in front of me.
“Yours is simpler.”
Nothing in that sentence felt believable.
I opened it.
Draft divorce terms.
Property disclosures.
Confidentiality options.
Interim maintenance I neither wanted nor needed.
And a final section concerning future dependants.
My breath caught.
The baby.
No one spoke.
My father knew better than to fill certain silences.
Bianchi said gently, “You are not required to decide that section today.”
I closed the folder.
“I know.”
He nodded and withdrew.
After he left, I remained staring at the cover.
My father watched me carefully.
“Have you thought more about telling him?”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“No.”
“He may learn later.”
“He may.”
“Would you prefer he learns from you or a lawyer?”
I stood abruptly and crossed to the window.
Rain had started outside, soft over the gardens.
“I don’t know what I prefer,” I said. “I don’t know what is fair.”
“Fairness is a poor compass in betrayal.”
I turned.
“It’s his child.”
“And your body. Your future. Your grief.”
His voice was calm, but there was iron beneath it.
“He forfeited entitlement to ease, not biology.”
I hated that he could be right in layers.
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I nearly ignored it.
Then answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then Ryan’s voice, low and rough.
“Please don’t hang up.”
My heart kicked hard against my ribs.
“You shouldn’t be calling me.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
“Because everyone else is talking about us.”
I said nothing.
He exhaled shakily.
“I wanted one minute where it was just you and me.”
Too late.
“Say what you need to say.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words should have satisfied me.
Instead they landed like ash.
“For what?” I asked quietly.
Another silence.
Then, “For Chloe. For lying. For the things I said. For making you feel small.”
I looked out at the rain.
“You didn’t make me feel small, Ryan.”
No answer.
“You revealed how small you were.”
My father looked away politely, giving privacy while hearing every word.
Ryan’s voice roughened.
“I deserve that.”
“Yes.”
“I keep remembering things.”
I closed my eyes.
“Don’t.”
“The anniversary dinner. The candles. You in that dress.”
Pain flared unexpectedly sharp.
“Stop.”
“I forgot and you still looked happy to see me.”
“Ryan.”
“I don’t know how I became this person.”
I gripped the phone harder.
“You didn’t become him overnight.”
That silence again.
Heavy now.
Truthful.
“Can we meet?” he asked.
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“I need to tell you something face to face.”
“I already know you.”
“No,” he said. “You knew who I was with you.”
I almost hung up then.
But curiosity can be as dangerous as longing.
“What does that mean?”
“It means without you, I’m seeing myself clearly for the first time.”
I ended the call.
My hand shook afterwards.
My father said nothing for a full minute.
Then, “That was wise.”
“I don’t feel wise.”
“You feel human.”
I sat again, suddenly tired beyond measure.
By afternoon, Adrian arrived unannounced carrying takeaway containers from a restaurant impossible to book.
Maria adored him for bringing food.
I distrusted him for the same reason.
“You look murderous,” he said, placing boxes on the table.
“I’ve had calls, paperwork, televised humiliation, and moral confusion.”
“So… Tuesday.”
I laughed despite myself.
He opened containers one by one.
Soup. Bread. Pasta. Salad.
“You brought enough for six people.”
“I was raised with emotional overcatering.”
We ate in the smaller conservatory while rain tapped the glass roof.
For several minutes he let me eat in silence.
Then, “You spoke to him.”
I looked up sharply.
“How do you know?”
“You’re sad, not angry.”
Annoying man.
“He apologised.”
“And?”
“And I hated that part of me wanted it.”
Adrian leaned back.
“Of course it did.”
“I should hate him.”
“No. You should distrust him. Hate is exhausting.”
I stared at my plate.
“What if he means it?”
“He probably does.”
I looked up.
“That doesn’t help.”
“It should. Regret can be sincere and still useless.”
The simplicity of it hit hard.
Sincere and useless.
Like flowers after a funeral.
“I don’t know how to stop loving who he used to be.”
Adrian’s gaze held mine steadily.
“You stop waiting for that man to return.”
Emotion rose so quickly I had to look away.
He changed the subject mercifully.
“The gala seating plan is causing fear.”
“Good.”
“Three men requested to move tables so they aren’t near your father if Ryan attends.”
I snorted.
“Cowards.”
“Realists.”
We finished lunch slowly.
As he stood to leave, he paused beside my chair.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
He handed me a cream envelope.
Inside was a handwritten note.
Private scan appointment confirmed. Tomorrow, 10 a.m. No press. No records visible externally.
I stared at it.
“You arranged this?”
“You needed someone to think ahead.”
My throat tightened.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You shouldn’t have to ask for everything when overwhelmed.”
I looked up at him.
For the first time since all this began, kindness from a man did not feel like a transaction.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
Something unreadable passed across his face.
Then he nodded once.
“Wear flat shoes tomorrow. Hospitals are depressing enough.”
After he left, I sat alone with the appointment card in my hand.
Tomorrow.
My baby would become more real than fear.
And with that reality would come choices no revenge story ever mentioned.
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