The warm sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the estate, casting golden streaks across the marble floors. Isla sat in the lounge, flipping through Amara’s coloring book absentmindedly while her daughter happily scribbled in another corner. Despite the serene environment, Isla’s mind was a storm.
The conversation she overheard the previous evening played on repeat in her mind. She’d been walking back from the garden when Vincent’s voice drifted through an open study door. What she heard stopped her in her tracks.
“If Dante doesn’t step aside, I’ll make sure he loses everything. The business will be mine-his reputation won’t survive once I’m done.”
Her stomach churned. Vincent’s cold tone and cutting words replayed in her head. His intention to betray Dante wasn’t just a passing thought-it was a calculated plan. And now, she was torn.
Dante was no saint, but Isla couldn’t ignore the look in his eyes lately. He had been trying so hard, and his sincerity was beginning to break down her defenses. But was he prepared for this? Could she even approach him about Vincent without things spiraling out of control?
“Mommy?” Amara’s voice broke her thoughts.
Isla looked up to see her daughter holding up a wildly colorful drawing. “Look!”
“Oh, sweetheart, that’s beautiful,” Isla said, forcing a smile. She kissed the top of Amara’s head and hugged her tightly. “You’re so talented.”
“Papa will love it!” Amara said proudly, running off to find him.
Isla’s smile faded as soon as Amara disappeared. She had to tell Dante. Keeping this from him wasn’t an option-it would destroy him if Vincent succeeded.
—
Later that afternoon, Isla found herself standing outside Dante’s office door. Her hands were cold, and her heart raced as she debated whether to enter. The weight of her decision felt overwhelming.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked softly.
“Come in,” Dante’s voice called out.
She opened the door to find him at his desk, reviewing some documents. He looked up, his sharp features softening as he saw her. “Isla,” he said, standing. “Is everything alright?”
She hesitated. “I… I need to talk to you.”
“Of course.” He gestured for her to sit.
She stepped inside but didn’t sit, pacing instead. Her hands fidgeted, and she bit her lip nervously.
“Isla, you’re making me nervous,” Dante said, watching her intently.
“I overheard something,” she began, her voice trembling slightly.
Dante’s brows furrowed. “What kind of ‘something’?”
She stopped pacing and faced him. “It’s about Vincent. I think he’s planning to take over your business. He said he’d ruin your reputation if you didn’t step aside.”
The room fell into silence. Dante’s expression turned cold, his jaw clenching as her words sank in.
“What exactly did you hear?” he asked, his voice low and controlled.
She repeated Vincent’s words as best as she could remember.
Dante’s hands curled into fists on his desk. “That son of a-” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply as he tried to calm down.
“I didn’t know if I should tell you,” Isla admitted, her voice small. “But I couldn’t keep it from you, Dante.”
He rose from his chair, his tall frame looming as he walked around the desk. He stood in front of her, his dark eyes searching hers. “Thank you for telling me,” he said, his voice softening.
“I thought you’d be angry,” she said, her gaze dropping to the floor.
“I’m furious,” he admitted. “But not at you. Vincent’s betrayal isn’t your fault.”
“But what are you going to do?” she asked, her worry evident.
“I’ll handle it,” he said, his tone firm. “Vincent won’t get away with this.”
—
That evening, Dante was unusually quiet. Isla watched him from across the dinner table as he picked at his food. Amara, oblivious to the tension, chattered happily about her day.
“Papa, look what I made!” she said, holding up her drawing from earlier.
Dante’s expression softened instantly. He leaned over to take the paper, his lips curling into a genuine smile. “It’s beautiful, Amara. Did you make this for me?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed, beaming with pride.
Dante pulled her into his lap, hugging her tightly. “You’re my little artist.”
Isla watched the exchange, her heart aching at the sight. Despite everything, Dante had moments like this where he seemed so human, so real.
—
Later, after Amara was asleep, Isla found Dante in the study. He was standing by the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring out at the darkened garden.
“Can I come in?” she asked softly.
He turned to her, his expression unreadable. “Of course.”
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “You’ve been quiet all evening.”
“I’ve been thinking,” he admitted, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Vincent has always been ambitious, but I didn’t think he’d stoop this low.”
“Do you think he’ll act on it?”
Dante sighed. “It’s not a question of if, but when. Vincent isn’t the type to make empty threats.”
“Then you need to be ready,” she said, her voice firm.
He looked at her, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You sound like my partner in crime.”
“Maybe I am,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’m not letting him hurt you, Dante. Or Amara.”
His gaze softened, and he set the glass down on the nearby table. “You’ve changed, Isla.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“When we first met, you were so guarded, so distant. But now… you’re fierce. Protective.”
“I’ve had to be,” she said quietly. “For Amara. For myself.”
He stepped closer, his presence filling the space between them. “I don’t deserve you,” he said, his voice low. “But I’m grateful you’re here.”
Her breath caught as his hand brushed her cheek. The vulnerability in his eyes was disarming, breaking down her defenses piece by piece.
“Dante,” she whispered, unsure of what to say.
He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. “We’ll get through this, Isla. Together.”
For the first time in a long time, she believed him.
—
The following day, Dante wasted no time. He arranged meetings with his most trusted allies, ensuring that Vincent’s plans wouldn’t catch him off guard. Isla stayed out of his way but kept a watchful eye, ready to step in if needed.
That evening, as they sat together in the lounge, Dante turned to her. “Thank you,” he said simply.
“For what?” she asked.
“For trusting me enough to tell me about Vincent,” he said. “You could’ve kept it to yourself, but you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t have lived with myself if I had,” she admitted.
His hand found hers, their fingers intertwining. “You’ve given me more than you know, Isla.”
As they sat there, the weight of their shared challenges felt a little lighter, and for the first time in days, Isla allowed herself to hope.