Chapter 12: Pieces of the Past...

The night was restless.

Isabelle tossed and turned in bed, her mind refusing to settle. Every time she closed her eyes, flashes of images flickered through the darkness. A grand house. A warm voice. A cold night.

Then fire.

Then nothing.

She jolted upright, her breath unsteady. The visions came in fragments, pieces of a puzzle she couldn't put together. Were they memories? Or just tricks her mind played on her?

The weight of uncertainty pressed on her chest.

She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, glancing toward the bedroom door. The penthouse was silent. Somewhere beyond, Damian was awake. She knew it—he barely slept.

Isabelle exhaled sharply. If someone had erased the Monroes from existence, what did that mean for her?

And more importantly—why had she been left alive?

By the time she stepped out of her room, the scent of coffee filled the air.

Damian stood by the kitchen counter, dressed in black, a cup of coffee in one hand, his phone in the other. His sharp eyes lifted the second she walked in.

"Did you sleep?" he asked.

She ignored the question and poured herself a cup of coffee, letting the warmth of the mug ground her.

"I remember things," she murmured.

Damian set his phone down. "What kind of things?"

She stared into the dark liquid. "Flashes. A house. A voice. I don't know what it means, but it feels… real."

Damian studied her carefully. "Your mind is trying to make sense of something it buried."

She swallowed. "I need to know the truth, Damian. What really happened to my family?"

His jaw tightened. "That's exactly what I plan to find out."

Before she could ask how, his phone buzzed again. He checked the screen and frowned.

"Change of plans," he said.

Isabelle stiffened. "What is it?"

Damian grabbed his keys. "We have a visitor."

Minutes later, Isabelle stood near the window, arms crossed as Damian opened the penthouse door.

Reed stepped inside, dressed sharply as always, his expression smug.

"Good morning, lovebirds," he drawled, his gaze flicking to Isabelle before settling on Damian. "I assume you got my message."

Damian folded his arms. "Get to the point."

Reed smirked. "Impatient as ever." He pulled a file from his jacket and tossed it onto the coffee table. "I did some digging, like you asked."

Damian picked up the file, flipping through the pages. His face darkened.

Isabelle moved closer. "What is it?"

Damian didn't answer immediately. Instead, he spoke to Reed. "Where did you find this?"

Reed leaned against the couch. "Had to call in a few favors. Turns out, someone's been paying a lot of money to keep the Monroe name buried."

Isabelle's heart pounded. "Who?"

Reed sighed dramatically. "That's the problem, sweetheart. The paper trail is a mess—whoever's behind this knows how to cover their tracks." He nodded toward the file. "But I did find one interesting lead."

Damian flipped to the last page. His grip on the paper tightened before he handed it to Isabelle.

Her fingers trembled as she took it.

The name printed on the page made her world tilt.

Christopher Monroe.

Her breath caught. "That's my father's name."

Reed tilted his head. "Yeah. Except according to these records… he didn't die fifteen years ago."

A stunned silence filled the room.

Isabelle shook her head. "That's impossible. My parents were killed. I saw the fire—"

"Maybe. Maybe not," Reed cut in. "But someone using that name was alive and making large transactions just three years ago."

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Damian's voice was sharp. "Where was the last recorded transaction?"

Reed's smirk faded. "New York."

A heavy silence fell over them.

New York.

The same city where she was nearly killed.

The same city where someone had placed a hit on her.

Damian's expression hardened. "If he's alive, someone wants to make sure Isabelle never finds out."

Isabelle's fingers curled into fists.

Could it be true?

Could her father still be alive?

And if he was…

Why would someone want her dead to keep it a secret.

Damian exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He was thinking—calculating.

"Reed," he said. "Keep digging. Quietly."

Reed nodded. "Already on it." Then, with a teasing smirk, he turned to Isabelle. "And you? What's your next move, princess?"

Isabelle clenched her fists.

She had spent years running from something she didn't understand.

No more.

"I want to go to New York."

Damian's head snapped toward her. "Absolutely not."

She lifted her chin. "If my father is alive, I need to find him."

His jaw tightened. "You don't know what you're walking into, Isabelle. This isn't a game."

Her gaze didn't waver. "I don't care."

His expression darkened. "The second you start looking, they'll know. And they'll come for you again."

She stepped closer. "Then let them come."

Reed let out a low whistle. "Damn. She's got fire."

Damian shot him a glare that could kill.

Isabelle's voice softened. "I need to do this, Damian."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, finally, Damian sighed.

"Fine."

Her heart jumped. "Really?"

"But we do this my way," he said darkly. "No risks. No mistakes."

She nodded.

Because at this point, there was no turning back.

They were going to New York.

And whatever waited for them there—it would change everything.