CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Isabella stood at the window of her old room in The Villa, staring down at the central courtyard. The last time she'd been in this room was her early days at Montez corporation.

In college, she never returned for the holidays — always choosing to spend them on campus or with María. She'd been forced to return once she graduated and started to work. 

But the moment her first paycheck hit? Boom! She was out the door. 

Everything was still the same. She wasn't.

Everything in this room reminded her of the girl she used to be — the girl she didn't want to be. It reflected parts of her she thought she'd severed, and that made it feel like something was squeezing her heart shut. 

So she looked away. Through the window. 

The central courtyard of the villa was tiled and boasted a huge fountain. She had been fascinated with it when she was little. Looking at it now, flashes of her playing with her mother around it danced through her mind — always when her father wasn't around. The grip on her chest tightened. 

Isabella shut her eyes, the breath she sucked in shuddering through her. 

*Can't I catch a fucking break?*

With a scowl Isabella turned away from the window and made her way out of the room, towards the spiral staircase. 

*Might as well go down to the dining and wait.*

The villa housed ten bedrooms and twelve baths, a party room and a formal dining room that could sit fifty. There were rooms for music, books, for work ... But not one for arts. 

There had once been collections of Italian, American and Spanish art and antiques all over. Those that were second to none. Curated by her mother. Fueled her love for art. 

The moment she got too invested in them, they had all been taken away. By her father.

Stay focused, kid. There's no room for frivolities or weakness in my legacy. 

*Legacy. Legacy. Legacy. It's always about that.*

There were two indoor and one outdoor pools, and garage that could accommodate twenty cars. Its gardens were a fairytale ground, probably her favourite part of it.

Porticos and decks laced the house, and several steps allowed discreet entrances and exits.

Despite its enormous size and beauty...it never felt like home. Not when her mother was alive. Worse when she died. 

All these space and there was no room for her. 

When she was little, she'd thought of it as a castle, full of big, beautiful rooms and complicated hallways. Growing up, she'd thought of it as a prison. It still felt same as she stepped off the stairs and the dining came into view — a room she was sentenced to spend entirely too much time with entirely too many people. 

Isabella's lips turned down at the sight of her family. If she was to be here, she wanted to be in the gardens, breathing in calming scents and basking in the sun.

Instead she was going to be trapped in the dining sipping an *excellent* chardonnay. 

*That's not the point.*

Isabella gritted her teeth as she stepped in, tucking to the sides. No one noticed her. Her eyes scanned the room and she scoffed at the blinding contrast. 

On one side was all that perfect Spanish sleekness — high cheekbones, tailored linen, dark eyes sharp as judgment.

And then there were the Scots. Red-haired, freckled, laughing too loudly and wearing tweed like they were proud of it.

*The ginger was always a fluke, like family mystery they blamed on some Scottish ghost. Pfft.Too pale to blend in with the Spanish side, too sharp-featured to pass as soft.* 

There was Rodrigo, suffocating in a suit like he was meeting with the president. Rodrigo from Venice with the wife who knew nothing about fashion — she painted her face as makeup, wore too much jewelry and always seemed to be pregnant everytime. 

She always had a lot to say and no one, not even her husband, paid her any heed. Isabella always made sure to avoid her. 

A pain to the ears and a spike to the brain. Pfft.

Rodrigo Montez rarely spoke out of turn. He was quiet most times. But when he did talk, he was too nice. Too polite. 

*Such a contrast to Father.*

You'd never think they were brothers. Rodrigo was a small man, thin. Isabella had a polite formal relationship with him. He wasn't as irritating and annoying as his wife, but for some reason, he rubbed her the wrong way. 

*I'd still take him over Father or God forbid, his wife.*

Rodrigo's little boys, if you could call nightmares from hell boys, were sprawled on the cold floor of the dining smashing two trucks together. His big boy— Octavio — wasn't here. Yet. He was twenty-seven, a few years older than her. They probably would have gotten along just fine if he didn't always give her lewd eyes —always when he thought she wasn't looking. 

*Creeps me out. The whole damn family has some creepy psychotic thingy going on for them. And I'm supposed to spend an entire evening with that?*

Isla's dog, Esly, was hiding between her legs. 

*Sexy legs. Aunt Fiona definitely passed on some good gene.*

She was looking as elegant and lustrous as ever, like she was lifted off the Victoria secret walkway and dropped down at the dining table. She appeared to be paying rapt attention to what Rodrigo was explaining to her, her gorgeous grey-blue eyes fixed on his face. Isabella watched as she feed Esly a fat strip of jamón folded like a bribe. The move was too quick and precise for her to have had her full attention on the conversation. 

She looks bored to death. If Isla isn't excusing herself immediately, she must be aiming to get something from the conversation. Unless Rodrigo's suddenly developed an interest in hemlines and seasonal lookbooks, I don't see why Isla's cozying up to him. Unless... the rumors about declining profits in her sector are true.*

"Here—"

Isabella jumped at the sudden voice at her side. 

"Caught you standing alone," Fiona said softly, holding out a small scone wrapped in foil. "Fresh from the oven. Still warm. Don't let the Spaniards taste it first — they'll claim it's bland."

Isabella took it, surprised to find the foil still radiating heat. "Thanks." Isabella moved her weight from one leg to the other. She had always felt comfortable with Fiona more than anyone else in the room. 

She never expected her to engage in never ending, dumb conversation just to be able to hear her own voice. With her red-hair, eyes the color of the sea and that calm, unshakable grace, Fiona looked like she'd stepped out of one of Isabella's mother's old photo albums.

There was something haunting in that resemblance — not just in the coloring but in the way she moved. Soft-footed, observant, Kind, without demanding anything back. She reminded Isabella of her mother in the worst and best way possible. Which meant Isabella didn't know whether to edge closer… or run.

"Any idea when we're going to get this business rolling?" She asked. 

"When your Papa's is ready obviously. I hear that dinner is set for seven or rather seven thirty. For your Papa not to be here yet, he must be waiting for someone to arrive. Whoever it is, I hope it's not someone that makes me want to punch the air." 

*Or maybe he's just making us wait for the kick of it. And it's working. Been here since afternoon. I feel drained already.*

She started to grunt but caught herself in time. "Let's hope so," she said instead. 

"I haven't seen you around since you came back— been busy," Fiona said just as as Isabella uttered the words. "Naturally. I saw the Press release, that was a good kickback and the video — sealed the deal. You handled it pretty well I've to say."

Isabella heard the good words, forced herself not to clam up. But something echoed at her. She turned so she was facing Fiona. "What video?"

Fiona frowned. "The video that was released few hours ago. I thought you were couped up there because you were architecting and controlling it all. No?" 

Isabella forced a smile even as her mind spun. "Oh that. Yeah. Handled it," she said distractingly. 

What video is it this time? Should be a good one if Aunt Fiona is cool about it, right? 

She ached to run back upstairs and surf the internet to find the video. But Aunt Fiona's eyes narrowed on her. 

"Is everything okay" 

She nodded. "M-hm."

"How was Hawaii? Isla couldn't stop whining about it." 

Isla was the same age as her. Born months apart, their mothers had decided to give them similar names, hence Isabella and Isla. Their mothers were close. They weren't. They weren't paddies but their weren't enemies either. Silent competitors? Maybe. Largely on Isla's part.

Isabella secretly admired her. Isla looked like one of those sleek ceramic vases displayed in fashion showrooms — all flawless curves and designer glaze, beautiful by every standard but too polished to feel real. Like she'd crack if life pressed too hard. 

"Nothing much." 

Fiona shook her head. "I heard there're hot guys over there, don't tell me you didn't get yourself one? A pretty blonde? A hot, dark haired jock maybe?" 

Hot. Dark haired. Only one guy came to mind. Flashes of him on glasses reading the PR documents and combing a hand through his dark mane danced in her mind's eye. With thoughts of him came thoughts of the supposedly just released video. 

*Has he seen it? He would be trying to contact me if it needed handling, right?*

Isabella cleared her throat. "Um. Not really. Just sort of—" she moved her hands vaguely. "You know." 

"Honey, you need to get out more and not just for...you know." 

It was such a mum thing to say, Isabella couldn't stop the smile that stretched out on her face. "I could say the same about you."

"Oh please. I'm just an old, fifty years old virgin."

"Best looking fifty years old virgin in the room," she retorted and Fiona laughed. 

"You always were sweet when you put your mind to it."

"Mama, the scones." Isla dashed up, plucked one from her mother's hands. "Tell me, Mama, were you just going to leave me with Uncle Rodri the yapper forever?" She muttered. 

"Poor thing. Think of it as a favor, it's probably the first time in weeks he's been able to say five words at a stretch without Sofía cutting in." 

"Believe me, he tried to make up for it." Isla rolled her eyes. 

If Isabella wasn't stuck wondering what that video was about, she would've found their banter funny and maybe smiled. Isla glanced her way. "So, Isabella, how are you?" 

"Fine."

"Hard at work scrubbing your name squeaky clean?" 

Isabella tensed. Fiona gave her daughter a *watch your mouth* look. 

"Sure," Isabella answered, keeping the edge out of her voice. 

"Know a word with more than one syllable?" 

"Maybe. Thought you were in Italy?" 

"Was," Isla answered, mimicking Isabella's tone as her lips twitched. "Now I'm here." 

Isla glanced over her shoulders as two of their young cousins began to cry and shriek. "Mama, if I was ever that offensive and disagreeable, how did you keep yourself from drowning me?" 

Fiona chuckled. "You weren't obnoxious, m'eudail. Difficult, opinionated but never—" (Darling)

Isabella stepped aside as Isla snatched Fiona's attention. For once, she was grateful for her bulldoze your way in attitude. Moving closer to the entrance of the dining, she fished out her phone. She keyed in her name. If the video was related to her scandal, it would pop up as the latest news on her. 

And it did. 

Isabella froze just as she was about to click on the video. Her eyes narrowed on the screen of her phone. 

*Mateo?*

She quickly dashed out from the dining. She couldn't watch the video there. There was too much eyes. Too much ears. They most likely already saw it but they didn't need to see her reaction to it. She stopped at the stairway. 

With one glance over her shoulders, she clicked on the video.