The Bride the Portrait Chose

The first thing they took from Isla Bennett was her father. The second was his name. She stood beneath the gray morning sky, staring at the freshly covered grave while rainwater gathered at the edge of her black shoes. She had not cried. Not once. Not when the doctor had called. Not when she had identified his body. Not when she had watched the coffin disappear beneath the earth. And not when the priest said the words every grieving daughter eventually had to hear. “May his soul rest in peace.” Isla wanted to believe it. She wanted to believe her father was finally somewhere peaceful. But there was something about the way he had died that refused to let her mourn properly. A car accident. That was what the police called it. A wet road. Poor visibility. Loss of control. An unfortunate accident. Three words that had been repeated so many times that they had begun to sound like a rehearsed lie. Her father had been careful. He had driven the same road for twenty years. He had survived storms, long-distance trips, and countless nights returning home from restoration projects. He never drove recklessly. Never. Isla lowered her eyes to the flowers resting against the grave. White lilies. Her father’s favorite. She reached down and touched one of the petals. “Goodbye, Dad.” The words finally broke something inside her. Her throat tightened. She swallowed hard. “I’ll take care of everything.” It was a promise she had no idea how to keep. Her father’s art restoration studio was drowning in debt. The house had a mortgage. Several unfinished restoration projects were tied up in legal disputes. And whatever savings he had left would barely cover the funeral. But those were problems Isla could solve. She had spent her entire life learning how to repair damaged things. Paintings. Frames. Old manuscripts. Furniture. Objects people had considered too broken to save. She could fix this. She had to. A black sedan stopped near the cemetery gates. Isla barely noticed it. Until a man stepped out. He was dressed in a dark suit, holding a leather folder beneath one arm. He didn’t look like someone attending a funeral. He looked like someone arriving for business. The man approached her. “Ms. Bennett?” Isla turned. “Yes?” “My name is Jonathan Reed. I’m an attorney representing Ashcroft Holdings.” Her expression hardened. “I don’t know why Ashcroft Holdings would be interested in my father’s funeral.” “I understand this isn’t a good time.” “Then choose another time.” He hesitated. “I wish I could.” He opened the folder. Isla looked at it but didn’t reach for anything. “What is this?” “A legal notice.” She stared at him. “Today?” “I’m sorry.” “No.” Her voice became firmer. “My father was buried five minutes ago.” “I know.” “Then whatever this is can wait.” “Unfortunately, it cannot.” He handed her the document. Isla took it reluctantly. The first page contained several paragraphs of legal language. She scanned them. Then stopped. Her eyes moved back to the heading. NOTICE OF CLAIM. Her heart began beating faster. She continued reading. A painting. A missing painting. A piece belonging to the Ashcroft family’s private collection. According to the document, the painting had disappeared twenty-five years ago during a restoration commissioned by Ashcroft Holdings. Her father’s company had been involved. Isla looked up. “What does this have to do with my father?” Jonathan didn’t answer immediately. She looked back at the document. Then she saw the sentence that made her blood run cold. Adrian Bennett is alleged to have unlawfully removed and concealed the artwork. Her fingers tightened around the paper. “No.” Jonathan sighed. “The Ashcroft family is demanding the immediate return of the painting or financial compensation for its estimated value.” “My father didn’t steal anything.” “I understand that is what you believe.” “No.” Isla stepped closer. “I don’t believe it. I know it.” Her father’s entire life had been devoted to preserving art. He had taught her that restoration was not about ownership. It was about responsibility. “When someone trusts you with a piece of history, Isla, you don’t change it to suit yourself. You protect what is there.” Those words had been repeated throughout her childhood. He would never steal a painting. Never. Jonathan lowered his voice. “There is documentation.” “What documentation?” “Restoration records. Transfer records. Witness statements.” “Witness statements from whom?” “I can’t discuss the details.” “Of course you can’t.” Isla shoved the papers back toward him. “This is ridiculous.” Jonathan didn’t take them. “There is more.” She stared at him. “What?” “The Ashcroft family isn’t only seeking the painting.” Her stomach dropped. “They intend to seize your father’s remaining assets as compensation.” Isla looked toward the grave. Her father hadn’t even been buried properly before strangers had begun dismantling his life. “They can’t do that.” “They can try.” “And what exactly do you expect me to do?” “Find the painting.” “That’s your solution?” “If the painting is recovered and authenticated, the claim against your father’s estate may be reconsidered.” “May be?” “Yes.” She turned away. Her hands were shaking. Her father was dead. His reputation was being destroyed. And now someone wanted to take everything he had left behind. For the first time, she felt completely alone. Then Jonathan spoke again. “There is one person who may be able to help you.” “Who?” “Damien Ashcroft.” The name meant nothing to her at first. Then she remembered. Everyone knew Damien Ashcroft. CEO of Ashcroft Holdings. Known for acquiring failing companies and turning them into profitable empires. Known for being ruthless, private and almost impossible to negotiate with. Isla shook her head. “No.” Jonathan frowned. “You haven’t heard the proposal.” “I don’t need to.” “His proposal concerns you personally.” “What does that mean?” Before Jonathan could answer, another car pulled into the cemetery. The rear door opened. A man stepped out. Isla had seen photographs of him before. Photographs didn’t do him justice. Damien Ashcroft was taller than she expected, with dark hair, sharp features, and an expression that gave absolutely nothing away. He walked toward them without an umbrella. Rain darkened the shoulders of his suit. His eyes settled on Isla. For several seconds, neither spoke. Then Damien stopped in front of her. Ms. Bennett.” “Mr. Ashcroft.” His gaze dropped briefly to the legal notice in her hand. “You’ve seen the claim.” “Your family couldn’t wait until my father’s funeral was over.” “It wasn’t my decision.” She almost laughed. “Then why are you here?” His expression remained unreadable. “Because I want to make you an offer.” Isla folded her arms. “I don’t want your money.” “I didn’t say anything about money.” “Then what?” Damien looked toward the grave. For the first time, something changed in his expression. Regret. It disappeared almost immediately. “Your father knew something about my family.” Isla’s breath caught. “What?” “I don’t know exactly what he discovered.” “Then why accuse him of stealing?” “I didn’t.” She stared at him. “Your family did.” “Yes.” “Your family is demanding millions from his estate.” “Yes.” “And you expect me to believe you’re different?” “No.” The answer was so direct that she didn’t know what to say. Damien reached into his coat and removed a folded document. He held it out. “You have six months.” Isla didn’t take it. “Six months for what?” “Marry me.” The rain seemed to disappear. For one ridiculous second, Isla wondered if she had heard him correctly. “What?” Damien’s eyes remained fixed on hers. “Marry me for six months.” She stared at him. Then she laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh. It was disbelief. “You came to my father’s funeral to propose a business arrangement?” “Yes.” “You don’t even know me.” “I know enough.” “No, you don’t.” “I know your father’s company is in debt.” Her smile vanished. “I know the Ashcroft family can legally challenge his estate.” She said nothing. “And I know you have spent the last seven years restoring paintings for people who barely remember your name.” Her eyes narrowed. “How much did you investigate me?” “Enough.” “That’s disturbing.” “Probably.” He handed her the document again. “If you marry me, the Ashcroft claim against your father’s estate will be suspended.” Isla looked at the contract. Her heart pounded. “What do you get?” “Protection.” “From what?” His jaw tightened. “My family.” That answer unsettled her more than anything else he had said. Damien stepped closer. “I don’t need a wife who loves me.” “Good.” “I don’t expect obedience.” “Even better.” “And I won’t interfere with your work.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Then why me?” For the first time, Damien hesitated. His eyes moved toward the grave. “Because your father was the last person who tried to tell me the truth.” Isla froze. “What truth?” “I don’t know.” “Then find out.” “I intend to.” He looked directly at her. “And I think you may be the person who can help me.” She stared at him. A billionaire asking her to marry him. Her father’s company hanging by a thread. A missing painting. A family accusing her dead father of theft. And now Damien Ashcroft claiming that her father had been trying to expose something inside his family. Nothing made sense. But one thing did. She couldn’t let her father’s name be destroyed. She looked down at the contract. Then back at Damien. “If I agree, I want one condition.” “Name it.” “I investigate the missing painting myself.” His expression hardened slightly. “Agreed.” “I see every document connected to my father’s case.” “Agreed.” “And you don’t lie to me.” For the first time, something almost like amusement touched his eyes. “That may be the most difficult condition.” “Then don’t make the deal.” He studied her. Then extended his hand. “Six months.” Isla looked at his hand. This was madness. She knew it. But her father had spent his entire life teaching her one thing: When something doesn’t make sense, don’t walk away. Look closer. She placed her hand in Damien’s. His fingers closed around hers, warm firm and unexpectedly gentle. “Six months,” she agreed. Neither of them noticed the figure standing behind the cemetery trees. A man watching them. A man holding an old photograph. In the photograph, a much younger Adrian Bennett stood beside a beautiful woman in a white wedding dress. On the back of the photograph were four handwritten words: She was never supposed to survive. The stranger folded the photograph and slipped it into his pocket. Then he disappeared into the rain.