Chapter Eight: Pressured Hearts
1014 Words
For the first time in weeks, Isabelle woke up warm.
Warm arms. Warm sheets. A warm body next to hers.
Alexander’s chest rose and fell steadily beside her, one arm slung around her waist as if he was afraid she’d disappear again.
She didn’t.
Not yet.
And that scared her more than anything.
Quiet Mornings
“Good morning,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, lips brushing her temple.
She smiled despite herself. “Barely. It’s still dark.”
“I like you in the dark.”
“Of course you do. That way, you can’t see when I’m rolling my eyes.”
He chuckled softly and rolled onto his back, pulling her with him. She settled against his chest, letting herself be held—for now.
For a moment, it felt real.
No contracts.
No cameras.
No scandals.
Just them.
But the phone buzzed across the room like a warning.
He groaned. “Ignore it.”
“I can’t.”
She got up.
Her phone screen was already flooded.
Hundreds of mentions. Dozens of tagged photos. Headlines.
She clicked one article.
“From Charity Queen to College Rebel? Isabelle Hart’s Past Comes to Light”
The photo was old—her at 20, in ripped jeans, straddling a motorcycle, kissing some long-forgotten boyfriend at a protest rally.
But that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was the caption:
“Wolfe Industries’ Future Wife? Or Future PR Disaster?”
Panic and Protection
She stumbled into the living room, trying to breathe, as comments loaded endlessly.
“Gold digger.”
“Fake as hell.”
“Wait, wasn’t she with that Ethan guy?”
“She’s just riding Wolfe’s money. Watch.”
Alexander walked in moments later, shirtless, phone in hand.
“I saw.”
“You already knew?”
“I have alerts.”
She stared. “You’re tracking press mentions of me?”
He didn’t flinch. “Of course I am.”
“That’s—”
“Necessary.”
She shook her head, breath unsteady. “This isn’t normal.”
“This is your life now,” he said gently, like he’d said it before.
“I didn’t sign up to have my past dragged out and edited like a movie trailer.”
“Then let me handle it.”
“You mean control it.”
His eyes darkened. “Isabelle…”
“No,” she said, voice breaking. “I don’t want to be rescued. I want to be respected.”
He stepped closer, soft but firm. “And I want to protect what’s mine.”
She froze.
“What did you just say?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did,” she said, backing up. “You think I’m something you own. Like your buildings. Your stock. Your headlines.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No, Alexander. What’s not fair is that I want to believe you. I want to stay. But I don’t even know where I end and your script begins.”
Ethan Returns Again
That night, as she sat alone on the rooftop terrace, bundled in Alexander’s coat, the door opened again.
It was Ethan.
She didn’t look surprised.
“Let me guess. You saw the headlines.”
He nodded, stepping closer. “They’re digging. Deep.”
She glanced at him. “Did they find anything I should worry about?”
“Depends,” he said. “Did you ever get arrested in college?”
“Once.”
“Then yes.”
She laughed bitterly. “Great.”
He hesitated. “Belle... come back to Boston. That offer still stands.”
She shook her head.
“It’s not that simple anymore.”
He leaned against the railing. “You still love him?”
She paused too long.
“I don’t know what this is,” she said quietly. “But it’s not fake anymore. That’s the problem.”
Ethan nodded.
“Then fight for it.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“I won’t be that guy who stands between you and something real,” he added. “But if he hurts you again…”
She nodded. “You’ll be there.”
“Always.”
The Clean-Up Crew
By morning, Alexander had already mobilized three PR firms.
Every photo of Isabelle’s past had been flagged. Every false rumor hit with takedown requests.
He sat at the boardroom table like a general at war.
“She’s being stalked by journalists. Fix it,” he snapped at his legal advisor.
“She doesn’t want to be ‘fixed,’” said someone quietly.
He looked up.
It was Veronica.
His ex-fiancée.
Now back in the city. Now somehow back in his company.
She stepped forward, cool as ever.
“You’re in love with her,” she said bluntly.
He said nothing.
“You’re making the same mistake you made with me—thinking you can fix people with power.”
He stood.
“This isn’t your business anymore.”
“Neither is she,” Veronica said, voice like a scalpel. “But she will be your undoing if you keep trying to make her fit into your world.”
Then she walked out.
Leaving Alexander with only his reflection in the glass walls—and a mounting ache in his chest.
Midnight
Isabelle stood in the kitchen when he returned.
No lights on.
No words said.
Until:
“I can’t be something you manipulate, Alexander,” she said.
He nodded. “I know.”
“I’m not a weakness.”
“I know.”
“I need you to stop managing me like I’m a brand.”
He stepped closer. “And if I can’t?”
She looked up. “Then I’ll leave. For good this time.”
Silence.
Then—
He reached into his pocket.
And handed her his phone.
On the screen: a private video.
Unreleased.
Someone had sent it anonymously. A hidden camera in his office. Footage of Isabelle in a vulnerable moment. Crying. Talking to herself.
Someone had been watching her.
He whispered:
“I think someone’s trying to destroy you.”
- Writer
