Isabella' a woman of power and Distinct

“Isabella! The press is at the gate again!” Her brother Angus burst through the long hallway with the urgency of a child who’d seen war. Isabella looked up from her notebook, blinking away the numbers she had been analyzing—figures from her father's dwindling steel business. “How many this time?” she asked, her voice cool and sharp. “Six cameras, two reporters, and one drone.” He paused. “They’re asking about Sandra. Again.” The sound of her younger sister’s name sliced through the room like broken glass. Esther. The wild one. The mistake. Isabella rose from her chair, her navy-blue silk robe brushing the marble floor. The halls of the Peters estate—once echoing with proud footfalls and military discipline—now murmured with tension. Their father, Charles Peters, had locked himself in the study for three days. No meetings. No phone calls. Not even to the Navy Brotherhood. And who could blame him? Their once flawless family name was now a trending hashtag for disgrace. Sandra, just seventeen, had vanished. But she didn’t go alone. She went with $100,000 from their father’s retirement fund and a man none of them had ever met in person. Pikolo Benz. Online, he was a fantasy: exotic vacations, tailored suits, wine and wealth. In reality, he was a taxi driver from the lower block of Hano Chi, who edited his life like a movie trailer—one good enough to fool a girl like Esther. And Esther had been foolish enough to fall for it. Isabella clenched her fist. It wasn’t just money that had been stolen. It was honor. Three hours later, in the grand dining hall, the tension hung like smoke. The family lawyer, Mr. Collins, stood at the end of the table, his lips pressed into a line. His wife Kate and their teenage daughter Eni waited awkwardly in the foyer. “Charles,” Mr. Collins said, “I’ve gone through the bank reports. The transfer was made from the secure account—your pension plan. Whoever helped her had access to the family vault signature codes.” Beside him, Mira, Isabella’s mother, looked pale and thin. Her once vibrant eyes were dim, her pearl necklace now sitting like a chain of worry on her chest. “Whoever helped her,” Mira whispered, “was someone inside.” A quiet murmur passed around the table. Cisco, Isabella’s older sister, folded her arms. “You think one of us gave her the codes?” “I think,” Mira said softly, “she didn’t learn how to run from strangers. She learned it from us.” Silence. From the back of the room, a deep voice growled: “She learned it from you all not watching her closely.” Charles Peters, once a man feared by generals and presidents alike, emerged from the shadows of the hallway. His uniform was gone. In its place was a loose sweater and tired jeans—a soldier stripped of his kingdom. “Don’t you dare,” Mira began, but Charles held up a hand. “She made a fool of me. Of us. And now the company’s stock has dropped. Investors are pulling out. Our legacy is in ruins.” I’ll find her,” Isabella said quietly. Everyone turned. Charles raised an eyebrow. “You?” “She’s my sister. And I’m the only one who understands how someone like Pikolo thinks. He didn’t just seduce her. He played her. Esther’s always dreamed of an escape. He gave her a fantasy.” “And what makes you think you’ll find her before the authorities do?” Mr. Collins asked. “Because I’m not going to follow the law,” Isabella said. “I’m going to follow instinct.” The city’s underground was a beast of its own. Glittering rooftops sat above sewers lined with secrets. Isabella walked through Red Moth Alley, her hoodie pulled tight, eyes scanning faces. It wasn’t her world—but it was Pikolo’s. She had traced his online footprint through university servers and backdoor IP paths. A few calls to Tosky, her old roommate from Bright Mind University, had confirmed it. Pikolo Benz had used the university library's open network six times last semester. Each time right after Esther uploaded a photo with a coded caption like: > "Can’t wait to fly into your arms, Benz baby." She stopped in front of a dive bar called The Broken Horn. Inside, smoke danced with cheap jazz, and every seat told a story. She slipped into a corner booth, and minutes later, Golden, Cisco’s friend from law school, slid in beside her. “You’re lucky I still owe you a favor,” Golden muttered. “What do you need?” “A name,” Isabella replied. “Someone who can track people who don’t want to be found.” Golden’s brows lifted. “You looking for a bounty hunter or a ghost hunter?” “Whichever finds Esther first.” That night, Isabella’s sleep twisted with fire. She stood in a forest of silver trees. The moon overhead bled light onto her skin. In her hand, she held a sword—not one of steel but of whispers. Every time she swung it, she heard echoes of her sister’s voice. “Help me, Bella…” She turned—and saw Pikolo not as a man but as a shadow beast, his eyes glowing, his fingers like claws. He opened his mouth and spiders fell out. When she woke up, she was sweating. On her phone was a message. Unknown: "Stop digging, or your family loses more than money. She’s mine now." Isabella stared at the message, her mind racing. This wasn’t just a runaway story anymore. It was war.