Chapter 6: The Rival
1319 Words
She came on a Tuesday.
Isabella was in the library, pretending to read a biography of some Gilded Age industrialist, when the front door opened and heels clicked across the marble floor. Not Eleanor's heels—these were lighter, faster, belonging to someone younger.
"Isabella Montero?" The voice was honey poured over ice. "I've heard so much about you."
Isabella looked up.
The woman standing in the library doorway was stunning. Tall, slender, with dark hair that fell in glossy waves past her shoulders. She wore a cream-colored sheath dress that probably cost more than Isabella's college education, and diamonds sparkled at her ears and throat. Her face was heart-shaped, beautiful, and her smile—wide and white—didn't reach her eyes.
"Who are you?" Isabella asked.
"Vivian Sinclair." She stepped into the library, her heels sinking into the Persian rug. "Alexander's... well, I suppose you'd call me a family friend. We grew up together."
Vivian Sinclair. The name from Eleanor's lips. Beautiful. Accomplished. Appropriate.
"The woman my future mother-in-law wanted Alexander to marry," Isabella said flatly.
Vivian's smile didn't waver. "Eleanor means well. She just wants what's best for Alexander."
"And you think that's you?"
"I think," Vivian said, walking slowly around the library, trailing her fingers over the spines of books, "that I've known Alexander since we were children. I've been by his side through everything—the accident, Arianna's death, his... difficulties. I've never left. Not once."
Isabella set down her book. "Congratulations."
Vivian stopped at the window, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. "He's a complicated man, Alexander. Broken in some ways. He doesn't love easily. But when he loves, he loves completely."
"I wouldn't know."
"No. You wouldn't." Vivian turned, and for the first time, her smile faded. "You see, the problem isn't that Alexander is engaged to someone else. The problem is that he's engaged to you."
"Why is that a problem?"
"Because you look like her." Vivian's voice was quiet, almost gentle. "Arianna. You're her twin, aren't you? Same face, same voice, same mannerisms. It's uncanny."
Isabella's hands curled into fists in her lap. "So I've been told."
"Alexander isn't in love with you. He's in love with her memory. And you—" Vivian stepped closer, close enough that Isabella could smell her perfume—expensive, floral, designed to linger. "You're just a convenient substitute."
The words landed like blows. Isabella kept her face still.
"Maybe," she said. "But I'm the one wearing his ring."
Vivian's eyes flickered to Isabella's left hand—to the enormous diamond that glittered there. Something cold passed over her face.
"For now."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm warning you." Vivian's voice hardened. "Alexander has a history of... attachments. Women he thinks might fill the void Arianna left. They never do. And when he realizes that, he discards them. Sometimes gently. Sometimes not."
"How many have there been?"
"Enough." Vivian stepped back, smoothing her dress. "I'm not telling you this to hurt you. I'm telling you because someone should. Eleanor won't. Alexander certainly won't. But you deserve to know what you're walking into."
Isabella stood. She was shorter than Vivian by several inches, but she didn't let herself shrink.
"Thank you for your concern," she said. "But I can take care of myself."
Vivian studied her for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.
"You know," she said, "I almost believe you." She walked toward the door, then paused. "One more thing. Alexander doesn't know I'm here. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him."
"Why not?"
"Because he's protective. Possessive. If he knew I'd come to warn you, he'd cut me out of his life completely. And despite everything—despite the engagement, despite you—I still care about him. I'd like to stay in his life, however tangentially."
Isabella considered this. "I won't tell him."
"Thank you." Vivian's smile returned, though it still didn't reach her eyes. "Good luck, Isabella. You're going to need it."
She left.
Isabella stood in the library for a long time after the door closed, staring at nothing.
Convenient substitute.
The words echoed in her skull.
She walked to the window, watched Vivian's silver Mercedes pull away from the curb and disappear into traffic, and wondered if she'd just made a terrible mistake.
Alexander came home late that night.
Isabella was in the kitchen, heating up soup she didn't want to eat, when she heard the front door open. She didn't turn around.
"You're still awake," he said from the doorway.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Bad dreams?"
"Bad days."
He walked into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and leaned against the counter across from her. He looked tired—shadows under his eyes, tie loose around his neck.
"Vivian came to see you today," he said.
Isabella's hands stilled on the stove. "How did you know?"
"I have cameras in the library."
Of course he did. Of course.
"Are you going to fire her for visiting without permission?" Isabella asked, her voice flat.
"Vivian isn't an employee. She's..." He paused, searching for a word. "Complicated."
"Your mother wanted you to marry her."
"My mother wants a lot of things."
"Vivian seems to think you have a habit of collecting women who remind you of Arianna."
Alexander set down his glass. "Did she say that?"
"She said you discard them when you realize they're not her."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "She's not wrong."
Isabella turned off the stove, abandoned the soup, and faced him.
"How many, Alexander? How many women have you used to try to fill a hole that can't be filled?"
He met her eyes. "Does it matter?"
"To me? Yes."
"Seven," he said. "Seven women in seven years. None of them lasted more than a few months."
"What happened to them?"
"I ended things when I realized I couldn't feel anything for them. Not really. Not what I felt for her."
"And now?" Isabella's voice was barely a whisper. "What do you feel for me?"
Alexander crossed the kitchen in three strides. He stopped inches from her, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his eyes, the faint lines at their corners that spoke of sleepless nights.
"I don't know," he admitted. "And that terrifies me."
"Because I look like her?"
"Because you don't act like her." He reached out, tentatively, and touched her face. She let him. "Arianna was soft. Gentle. She would have cried when I told her about the room. She would have begged me to let her go."
"And I didn't."
"No. You demanded. You threatened. You packed a bag." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "You're not a replacement, Isabella. You're something I never expected."
"And what's that?"
"A problem."
She should have been offended. Instead, she almost laughed.
"I'm not trying to be difficult."
"You don't have to try. It comes naturally."
They stood there, inches apart, the kitchen lights casting long shadows across the floor. She could feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne, see the pulse beating in his throat.
"What are we doing, Alexander?" she asked quietly.
"I don't know," he said. "But I'm willing to find out."
He leaned in—slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn't.
His lips brushed hers, soft and tentative, nothing like the brutal kiss in the hotel room. This was different. This was asking.
She closed her eyes.
And kissed him back.
Later, she lay in her bed—alone, because she'd asked him to leave—and stared at the ceiling.
Her lips still tingled.
Her heart still raced.
And her hand still rested on her stomach, where a life she hadn't planned was growing.
One month, she reminded herself. One month to decide.
But lying there in the darkness, she wondered if she'd already decided.
She just wasn't ready to admit it yet.
- Writer
