The Morning After
1061 Words
The world felt muted when Isadora opened her eyes. A gentle warmth bathed the room—soft morning light slipping in through the tall windows, filtered through sleek, charcoal-gray curtains. She blinked, taking in her surroundings: plush furnishings, impossibly clean lines, and the faint scent of cedar and something more elusive—something expensive.
This wasn't her home.
She sat up slowly. Her coat, folded neatly, lay draped over the arm of the couch. She was still in her work clothes, though her shoes were missing. Her head throbbed, not violently, but enough to remind her she had not ended the night where it began. Memories flickered—pain, claustrophobia, a steady voice grounding her, and then nothing.
"Good morning, sunshine."
Isadora turned toward the voice and froze. A woman stood at the edge of the open kitchen, holding a steaming cup of coffee and wearing a silk kimono embroidered with cranes.
"You—" she began, trying to place her face. Elegant, warm, and familiar.
The woman grinned. "Kidnapped. You’ve been kidnapped by the Blackhearts."
Isadora bolted upright, her heart racing.
The woman burst into laughter. “Relax. I’m kidding. You’re safe. You’re in Sebastian’s penthouse. He called me last night—just before you arrived. Asked me to take care of you, very cloak-and-dagger, very dramatic.”
“…Why?” Isadora asked, still blinking away the fog.
“Because he didn’t want anyone else to know you were here. Not the staff. Not the press. Not even the family.”
The woman stepped forward and offered the coffee. “Here. No more wine for you.”
Isadora took it with a grateful nod. “Yes… probably a good idea.”
"You don't remember much?"
She shook her head. "Bits and pieces. There was… a power outage. An elevator."
"And panic," the woman added gently, sitting down across from her.
There was no judgment in her tone. Just understanding.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude… you’re—?”
“Oh, of course. I’m Evangeline.”
Isadora raised a brow, halfway through a sip. “The one who—?”
“—was supposed to be married to your uncle? Yes, that’s me. Don’t worry, I’ve already repented.”
They both laughed. The tension softened. Evangeline gestured to the breakfast spread: eggs, toast, roasted tomatoes, a perfect hash.
“Eat. It’s all for you.”
Isadora leaned over and took a bite.
“It’s actually good… I’d be stupid to believe the Blackheart chefs would be bad at their job.”
Evangeline smiled knowingly. “Oh yes. The Blackheart chefs are brilliant, sure, but they had nothing to do with this. Sebastian made it.”
She paused. “…What?”
“He didn’t want even them knowing you were here. So he did it all himself.”
Isadora didn’t know what shocked her more—that Sebastian cooked, or that he cared enough to do it himself.
“There’s a suit in the wardrobe,” Evangeline continued, as if it were all perfectly normal. “Your size. Sebastian arranged it. Figured you wouldn’t have time to go home.”
“…Of course he did.”
Evangeline smiled at her knowingly. “Take a shower, change. I’ll wait.”
The bathroom felt like a spa catalog. Isadora stared at the rows of grooming products—body washes, oils, shampoos—all color-coordinated and alphabetized. She smirked. Meticulous bastard.
She turned the shower on. Ice water hit her shoulder.
“Damn it—!”
She leapt out, fumbling with the touchscreen panel. Eventually, heat flowed, and so did a reluctant peace. The hot water grounded her, soothed her.
Dressed in the tailored charcoal pantsuit Sebastian had selected, she emerged from the bedroom. Amelia, still reading a book on the couch, looked up.
“Ready?”
Isadora nodded. “Ready.”
They stepped into the elevator. Smooth jazz played softly. One floor before the parking garage, the elevator jolted to a stop. The doors slid open. Sebastian stood there, suited, unreadable, holding something long and dark in one hand.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good timing,” Evangeline chirped. She stepped aside, then turned to Isadora with a teasing grin. “Thank you for staying at the Blackhearts. You were the most decent drunkard.”
Isadora’s cheeks flushed. “I wasn’t drunk, I—”
But the doors had already closed. It was just the two of them now.
Sebastian held up the dark cloth.
“What is that?” she asked warily.
He stepped closer. “You didn’t expect me to show you my secret entrance, did you? You’re the one who didn’t want to be seen.”
“Well—yes, but—”
“Turn around,” he said, gently but firmly.
She hesitated, then obeyed. As he tied the blindfold, her head tipped slightly backward, unintentionally brushing his shoulder. He inhaled—she smelled like her. No perfume. No artificial notes. Just… Isadora.
The elevator doors opened. Still blindfolded, she felt his hand slip into hers, guiding her out.
The air changed—cooler, quieter.
He opened the passenger-side door of his sleek black car and helped her in. Then he walked around and slid into the driver’s seat. She sensed him lean closer. His breath was near her cheek.
She didn’t flinch. By now, his nearness felt oddly… grounding.
He clicked her seatbelt into place.
She cleared her throat. “Is all this necessary?”
“Of course,” he said, smug. “As good a driver as I am, I can’t control the other idiots on the road.”
She frowned. “I meant the blindfold.”
He smirked. “That too. No one else knows about this entrance—not even my father. And it’s going to stay that way.”
Sebastian paused for a minute.
“What happened?”, she asked.
“Something’s missing," he said. As he took out his shades and placed it on her, before her blindfolded eyes.
Isadora knew what had happened, and she asked in a monotonous tone, “Seriously?”
Sebastian chuckled to himself. He started the car. The engine purred to life. They drove in silence, the morning sun warming the glass, the city ahead. But in that hush, something unspoken lingered.
Not just secrecy. Not just strategy.
Something… entangled.
- Writer
