Chapter 7: Between Love and Blood
1482 Words
The silence of the limousine was suffocating.
Isabella sat stiffly in the back seat, her eyes locked on the passing city lights, though her mind was replaying the look on Alexander’s face that raw confusion, the betrayal, the heartbreak. She could still taste his kiss on her lips, but now it felt like poison. Sweet poison.
She shouldn’t have gone to that ball.
She shouldn’t have let him kiss her.
She shouldn’t have fallen.
But she had.
The moment their masks had fallen, everything had changed. The man who had unknowingly kissed the daughter of the woman he once loved now looked at her like a ghost returned to haunt him.
Her phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: You shouldn’t have come to the ball. Now everything is ruined.
She stared at the message, heart pounding. Was it Alexander? Or someone else?
Before she could reply, another text popped in.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: There are things you don’t understand, Isabella. Leave while you still can.
Her fingers trembled. She shoved the phone into her purse and leaned back, closing her eyes.
But sleep wouldn’t come. Only memories. Only the pain of that moment when truth cut through fantasy.
Back at the Drake estate, Alexander sat in his study, nursing a glass of whiskey. The fire crackled beside him, but the warmth did nothing to ease the storm inside.
Isabella.
Claire’s daughter.
His daughter?
He hadn’t dared let himself hope. But now that he had seen her — touched her, kissed her — the resemblance was undeniable. Not just in her face, but in her fire. Claire’s spirit lived in that girl.
And he had kissed her.
God.
He slammed the glass down on the mahogany table, shards flying like his thoughts.
It was all too much.
He hadn’t spoken to Claire in twenty-five years. When she left, she didn’t just break his heart she’d taken something more. And now, Isabella stood in his world like a living echo of the past.
But why had she come now?
And why hadn’t she told him the truth?
He opened a drawer, pulling out an old envelope yellowed with age. Inside was the letter Claire had written him, the one he had never answered.
"I’m not asking for forgiveness, Alexander. I just want you to know the truth. I had a child. She is your daughter. Her name is Isabella."
He hadn’t believed it then. Or maybe he hadn’t allowed himself to. But tonight, in the heat of that kiss, everything changed.
He had kissed his daughter.
Or… had he?
Was it true?
He needed proof. Answers. Now.
The next morning dawned grey and heavy.
Alexander hadn’t slept. His eyes were bloodshot, his shirt still wrinkled from the night before. He stood by the window of his estate, overlooking the misty garden that Claire used to love.
He tapped his phone.
“Max,” he said when his assistant answered groggily, “I need a private DNA test. Discreet. I want it done today.”
“Understood, sir. Who—?”
“My own. And… Isabella Monroe.”
There was a pause. “You think she’s—”
“I need to know, Max,” Alexander snapped. “And keep this between us. No one else.”
As he hung up, guilt slammed into him like a train.
What if it was true?
What if that moment that kiss had crossed a sacred line?
He had to fix this. He had to know.
Isabella sat on the edge of her hotel bed, still in her silk robe, the morning sun casting golden light across the room. She hadn’t touched her breakfast. Her phone sat beside her, silent now, though those strange messages still haunted her.
Someone was watching her.
Someone knew more than she did.
She opened her mother’s letter again, fingers tracing the faded ink.
"You’ll find him in the world of gold and secrets. Don’t trust easily. Even love wears a mask."
Love.
She had felt it in Alexander’s arms.
But now, the lines between love and blood had blurred.
A knock on the door made her jump.
She grabbed her robe tighter and walked slowly to the door. Through the peephole, she saw a man in a suit.
“Yes?” she called.
“Miss Monroe? I’ve been sent by Mr. Drake.”
Her stomach turned. “For what?”
“He’d like to speak with you. Privately. He asks that you come to the estate.”
She hesitated.
Had he discovered the truth?
Or was this a trap?
“I’ll come,” she said, and closed the door softly.
Back at the estate, Alexander waited in the glass conservatory the same place he had once proposed to Claire. Now, it felt cold. Hollow.
When Isabella entered, wearing a simple black dress and sunglasses, he stood.
Neither spoke.
He gestured to the seat across from him. She sat, tense.
“I had to see you,” he said finally. “To speak.”
She nodded. “I figured.”
He looked at her really looked and for the first time saw her not as a stranger, not as a beautiful mystery, but as a possible reflection of the greatest love he had ever lost.
“Claire never told me,” he said softly. “Not until it was too late.”
“She told me you left,” Isabella said, voice low.
“I didn’t,” he said. “I was forced to choose between my family’s business empire and the woman I loved. I made the wrong choice.”
Silence.
“I ordered a DNA test,” he admitted.
She looked up sharply. “You what?”
“I had to know. For both our sakes.”
“And if it turns out I’m not your daughter?”
He paused.
“Then I’ll still be left with a truth I can’t undo.”
Later that evening, Max returned.
Alexander stood in his office, hands trembling as he took the sealed envelope.
He hesitated… then tore it open.
And stared.
Then sank into his chair.
It was positive. 99.9% probability.
Isabella was his daughter.
The world tilted.
And the past screamed louder than ever.
The Breaking Point
Isabella sat quietly in the conservatory, sipping cold tea that had long since lost its flavor. The silence between her and Alexander was no longer just awkward—it was suffocating.
When he returned, envelope clutched in hand, his entire demeanor had changed. His steps were heavier, eyes hollow, mouth drawn into a grim line.
She stood up instinctively. "What is it? Did something happen?"
Alexander didn’t speak right away. He simply handed her the envelope.
Her hands trembled as she opened it. Her eyes scanned the results—her name, his name… and then that number: 99.9% probability.
She dropped the paper.
“No,” she whispered. “No, this can’t be…”
“I didn’t know,” he said quickly, stepping forward. “Isabella, I swear—if I had any idea, if Claire had told me—”
“You kissed me!” she screamed, backing away. “You held me like—like I wasn’t your—”
“I didn’t know!” His voice cracked, raw with shame. “I thought—God help me, I thought I was just drawn to a mysterious, beautiful woman. I didn’t know you were mine.”
She shook her head, breathing heavily, chest tight. “This is wrong. All of it. You should’ve known. You should’ve fought harder for her!”
Alexander looked like he’d been slapped.
“You think I didn’t?” he asked, voice breaking. “You think I didn’t want to build a life with Claire? My family threatened to disown me, to destroy her, to bury everything. I made the coward’s choice and I’ve paid for it every day since.”
She sank into a chair, heart pounding. “I don't know what hurts more—knowing who I am, or what almost happened between us.”
Silence.
Then Alexander walked to the fireplace, where an old photo of Claire rested in a silver frame.
“She never stopped loving you,” Isabella said, her voice softer now. “She never loved anyone else.”
He closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. “And I never stopped loving her.”
The weight of the truth pressed down on both of them.
“I need time,” Isabella said quietly. “To think. To breathe. I… I can’t stay here.”
“I understand.” His voice was barely a whisper.
“But I’m not running,” she added. “Not anymore. I want answers. I want the whole story.”
He looked at her then not as a stranger, not as a woman but as a daughter.
“You’ll get them,” he said. “I promise.”
- Writer
