His empire , her ruin

ISABELLA’S POV Three days after my father’s funeral, I discovered that the man who had spent his entire life telling me not to worry about money had left me with a company I knew almost nothing about. I was beginning to think he had a strange sense of humour. “Miss Hart?” I looked up from the window. Mr. Bennett stood behind his desk, adjusting the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. He had been my father’s lawyer for as long as I could remember. As a child, I used to think he was part of the family because he always appeared at Christmas dinners and occasionally brought me expensive chocolates. Today, he looked considerably less pleased to see me. “Sorry,” I said. “You were saying?” He glanced at the documents in front of him. “I was explaining the contents of your father’s will.” “Right.” I shifted in my chair, trying to get comfortable. The office was cold, and I had been sitting there for nearly forty minutes listening to words that seemed to belong to someone else’s life. Investments. Properties. Shares. Trusts. My father had apparently been a very busy man. “Your father left you his personal estate, including his properties, private investments and a controlling interest in Hartwell Holdings.” I blinked. “His what?” “Forty-one per cent of the company’s shares.” I stared at him. “I’m sorry, did you say forty-one?” “Yes.” I let out a small laugh, mostly because I wasn’t sure what else to do. “Mr. Bennett, I don’t even know what Hartwell Holdings does.” He didn’t laugh. “Your father was the principal shareholder. The company has interests in several sectors, including property development and international investments.” “International investments?” “Yes.” I looked down at my hands. My father had always been generous. He paid my tuition without complaint, made sure I never lacked anything important and had a habit of sending money whenever I mentioned something I wanted to buy. But business? That was different. Whenever I asked about his work, he’d give me the same answer. Nothing you need to concern yourself with, sweetheart. Apparently, there had been plenty I needed to concern myself with. “Why didn’t he tell me about this?” Mr. Bennett adjusted the papers. “Your father preferred to keep his business affairs separate from your personal life.” “That sounds like him.” I tried to smile, but it didn’t last. There was something particularly painful about discovering new things about someone who was no longer around to explain them. Mr. Bennett opened a drawer and removed a small leather box. “He also left these personal belongings for you.” I recognised the watch immediately. It was the one he wore almost every day, even when I begged him to buy a newer one. Beside it were his reading glasses and a silver fountain pen. I had bought him that pen for his fifty-second birthday. He’d pretended not to be impressed when I gave it to him, then used it so often that I eventually had to remind him to stop carrying it everywhere. My throat tightened. “Can I have these?” “Of course. They’re yours.” I picked up the pen, running my thumb over the engraved initials. For a moment, I forgot about the documents. I could almost picture him sitting across from me at the dining table, asking whether I’d eaten, complaining about how late I stayed awake and pretending not to notice when I stole food from his plate. I placed the pen carefully back inside the box. “Was there anything else?” Mr. Bennett reached for an envelope. “He asked that I give you this personally.” My name was written across the front. I knew his handwriting immediately. “Did he say what was inside?” “No. He only instructed me to give it to you after the reading of his will.” I opened it. There was a single sheet of paper inside. My darling girl, If you’re reading this, then I’ve failed to keep my promise of being there to guide you through everything. There are things about my life I’ve kept from you. Not because I didn’t trust you, but because I wanted you to have a life untouched by the decisions I made. Whatever happens next, remember that not everyone who offers you protection has good intentions. Do not sign anything without understanding what it means. And whatever you do, stay away from Alexander Moretti. I read the final sentence twice. Then I looked up. “Who’s Alexander Moretti?” Mr. Bennett’s hand paused over the document he was arranging. It was brief, but I noticed. “Alexander Moretti is the majority shareholder of Moretti International. He and your father had several business dealings over the years.” “Business dealings?” “Yes.” “Are they friends?” He took a moment before answering. “Not exactly.” I looked back at the letter. My father had never mentioned anyone by that name. “Why would he tell me to stay away from someone he did business with?” “Your father had his reasons.” I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. “Mr. Bennett, I’m starting to get the feeling that everyone knows something except me.” He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Isabella, I understand that this is difficult. But your father was involved in matters that were more complicated than you realise.” “Then explain them to me.” “I can’t explain everything today.” “Why not?” “Because I don’t have all the answers myself.” That was the first thing he’d said all afternoon that I believed without question. My phone began vibrating inside my handbag. I ignored it. Mr. Bennett closed the folder in front of him. “I would advise you not to make any decisions concerning the company until you’ve had an opportunity to review everything.” “I’m not signing anything.” “Good.” I stood, collecting my handbag and the leather box. “Thank you for seeing me.” “Isabella?” I turned. He looked uncomfortable. “If anyone approaches you concerning your father’s shares, please contact me before agreeing to anything.” I frowned. “Why would anyone approach me?” He didn’t answer immediately. “Because forty-one per cent of a company like Hartwell Holdings is valuable.” I gave him a tired smile. “I’m beginning to understand that.” I left his office with more questions than I’d arrived with. ⸻ The afternoon sun was unpleasantly bright when I stepped outside. I stood beside my car, searching through my handbag for the keys when my phone began ringing again. Unknown number. I considered ignoring it, but something about the repeated calls made me answer. “Hello?” “Is this Isabella Hart?” “Yes. Who’s speaking?” A brief silence followed. “Your father made a mistake.” My hand tightened around the phone. “Excuse me?” “Don’t make the same one.” “Who is this?” “Be careful about the company you’ve inherited.” The call ended. I stared at my screen. For a few seconds, I simply stood there, trying to decide whether I’d heard correctly. Then I called the number back. It was switched off. “Unbelievable,” I muttered. I got into my car and locked the doors. I should have been frightened. Instead, I was angry. My father was barely three days in the ground, and someone had already decided to involve me in whatever mess he’d left behind. I drove home with the radio off. ⸻ That evening, I found Mr. Bennett’s missed call waiting on my phone. I returned it while taking off my earrings. “Isabella? Thank goodness.” “What’s wrong?” “I wanted to ask whether you received the envelope.” “Yes. I read the letter.” There was a pause. “Did you see the photograph?” I frowned. “What photograph?” “The one I placed inside the black folder.” I looked towards the coffee table. The folder was there, exactly where I’d left it. “I haven’t opened it.” “Please do.” His tone had changed. I walked over, picked up the folder and opened it. Inside was a photograph of my father standing beside a younger man in a dark suit. I recognised my father immediately. The other man was unfamiliar, but there was something about his expression that made him difficult to look away from. He wasn’t smiling. His hand rested on my father’s shoulder, and they appeared to be standing outside a building. I turned the photograph over. Three handwritten words stared back at me. Alexander knows why. I felt my stomach tighten. “Mr. Bennett?” “Yes?” “Why is there a photograph of my father with Alexander Moretti?” He exhaled. “Isabella, your father asked me to keep that photograph safe.” “Why?” “I don’t know.” I looked at the date printed in the corner. It had been taken three months before my father’s death. Three months. “Did my father know he was going to die?” “I don’t believe he did.” “Then why does this feel like a goodbye?” Mr. Bennett was quiet. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower. “Your father was worried about something in the weeks before his death. I asked him about it several times, but he refused to tell me.” “Did he mention Alexander?” “Yes.” I closed my eyes. “What did he say?” “That he had made an arrangement he could no longer control.” My grip tightened around the photograph. “What arrangement?” “I don’t know, Isabella.” I was beginning to hate those four words. “I need you to come and see me tomorrow,” he continued. “There are some documents I haven’t given you yet. I believe you should see them before you make any decisions.” “Why didn’t you give them to me today?” “Because I wanted to be certain they were safe.” “Safe from whom?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “Please be careful tonight.” The call ended. I remained on the sofa, the photograph resting in my lap. My father had left me his money, his company and a warning about a man I’d never met. I couldn’t decide which part unsettled me more. My phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number. You should have left the inheritance alone, Isabella. I stared at it. Another message appeared. Your father did. Look where that got him. The room suddenly felt smaller. I stood and walked towards the window, pulling the curtains closed. For the first time since the funeral, I allowed myself to consider something I’d been avoiding. What if my father’s death wasn’t an accident? And what if Alexander Moretti was the only person who knew why?