Sunday dragged by in silence-no calls, no knocks, no unexpected deliveries. Just me, the apartment, and the growing certainty that Mateo had already moved on. Monday morning came too fast. I dressed in the same cautious outfit-black blouse, yellow skirt, brown jacket-and headed to the office with zero expectations.

The elevator ride started the same way. Aisha stepped in on the lobby floor, today in a tailored emerald-green blazer and wide-leg trousers that made her look like she owned the building. She smiled the second she saw me.

"Morning, Isabella. Survive the weekend?"

"Barely," I admitted with a small laugh. "You?"

"Family calls from Port Harcourt. Always chaos." She leaned against the wall. "You should come out with me sometime. Girls' night. No pressure, you know." she wiggled her brows sheepishly.

The invitation warmed something inside me. "I'd like that."

We rode in comfortable quiet until her floor. She squeezed my arm before stepping out. "See you around, newbie."

The rest of the morning passed in the usual haze: laptop open, company Wi-Fi streaming free movies. I barely paid attention to the screen. Instead I opened social media on my phone and scrolled straight to my father's profile.

Photos from the wedding. Him in a sharp gray suit. His new wife in white lace, beaming. Flowers everywhere. Smiles that looked real.

"She's beautiful," I whispered to the empty room.

Tears came without warning-hot, silent, sliding down my cheeks. I was happy for him. I really was. But the pictures didn't include me. Not one. Not even a mention. I was invisible again.

My thumb hovered over his contact. Call? Text? Congratulate him? Ask why I wasn't worth an invitation?

I hit call. One ring. Panic surged. I ended it before the second.

Shit! Shitt! Shittt!

"I can do this," I told the empty office.

I opened messages instead. Typed. Deleted. Typed again. The words spilled out raw and honest.

Dad,

I forgive you for never really liking me. Thank you for not giving me up to foster care when you could have. Thank you for college, even if it came with strings. Mr. Rossi has been kind-paid my rent, gave me cash when I needed it, made sure I had a place. I ran into Ethan here, You won't know him. He wants me back. I'm scared he'll hurt me again, but part of me wonders if I'm the problem.

Congratulations on the wedding. She looks happy. You look happy. I wish I'd been there, but it's okay if I wasn't. I hope you're okay.

Love,

Isabella

I hit send before the tears could blur the screen completely. Then I cried harder than I had the day he first told me I was a burden. Ugly sobs. Chest-heaving. Alone in a glass office on a foreign continent.

What about Ethan? If I went back to him, would he really change? Would he stop the control, the disappearing acts, the quiet threats?

And Mateo... one night in New York. One afternoon here. He'd made me come so hard I saw stars, but he hadn't even stayed till morning. Maybe he didn't recognize me after all. Maybe he came to my apartment to remind me of the debt-four hundred euros, food, rent, utilities, flight ticket. The list was endless. How the hell would I ever repay that?

I stood up abruptly. Walked to the water dispenser in the hallway. Empty. Of course.

Frustrated, I grabbed my phone and left the office for the first time during work hours.

The executive floor felt different mid-day. Quieter. Darker suits everywhere. Men moving with purpose, eyes forward, ignoring me completely. I passed a reception desk and stopped.

"Hi, I'm Isabella, I just need to-"

"Go straight, left at the end of the hall," the guy muttered without looking up.

I hesitated. Glanced up. A camera stared back from the corner.

He finally lifted his head. Pale blue eyes. Long blond hair tied back. Thin lips pressed flat. Nameplate: Frank.

"Thanks, Frank," I said quietly.

Recognition flickered in his gaze-brief, then gone. He looked back at his screen.

I filled my cup at the dispenser down the hall. Drank. Filled it again.

A palm landed on my ass. Firm. Possessive.

"What are you doing out here, Bell?"

Ethan.

I jerked away. Water sloshed over my hand, soaking the front of my outfit. He stepped closer. Smiled like nothing had happened Saturday.

"You should be in your office."

I tried to sidestep. He blocked me. Pressed in until my back hit the wall. The cold water seeped through fabric, clinging to my skin.

"You're wet," he whispered, eyes dropping to my chest.

I swallowed hard. "Fuck you."

Anger flashed across his face-quick, familiar. The same look he used to give me right before he'd grab my arm too tight or slam a door inches from my face. Never a direct hit. Always close enough to scare.

"Please leave me alone, Ethan," I said, voice shaking. "I don't know what you want from me."

His hand slid to my upper arm. Caressed down to my wrist. Slow. Deliberate. Then across my stomach. To my waist. He leaned in until his breath touched my ear.

"I want what's mine."

My heart hammered. Fear and fury twisted together.

"Let go."

He didn't.

Not until footsteps echoed down the hall-sharp, purposeful.

Ethan released me instantly. Stepped back. Smoothed his tie like nothing happened.

"See you soon, Bell."

He walked away. Casual. Calm.

I stood there dripping, shaking, cup clutched so tight my knuckles went white.

The hallway felt colder than before.

**MATEO'S POV**

Isabella.

That girl has no idea what she does to me.

Since that night in the Velvet Room, she’s lived rent-free in my head. Every curve, every gasp, every time she looked up at me like I was the only thing that existed. When I learned she was Nathan’s daughter, it felt like fate handed me the perfect excuse to pull her close. To keep her. To make sure no one else ever touched what was already mine.

I went to her apartment that day telling myself it was just concern—she looked wrecked at work, pale and unsteady. But the second I saw her in that towel, hair dripping, skin flushed… all restraint vanished. I told myself she was too drunk that first night to remember me. That’s why she never brought it up. That’s why I never pushed. I wanted her to come to me on her own. Wanted her to crave it the way I did.

Dang it. I shouldn’t have gone.

Shouldn’t have looked at her body.

Shouldn’t have touched her.

Her soft, wet heat under my tongue. Her lips parting on a moan. Those wide eyes locked on mine while she came apart.

I was asking too much and I knew it. Seem I always had Oliver's Twist after all.

I’ve barely slept since. Every night I watch the feeds—her office camera, the hallway ones, even the building entrance. I sit in this chair and stare like a goddamn addict. Today was worse. Seeing her talk to one of the junior analysts, laughing at something he said… it clawed at me. I don’t even know the guy’s name. Doesn’t matter. No one gets to make her smile like that except me.

Then she left her office. Walked down the hall for water. My dispenser on her floor had been empty for days—I’d meant to have it fixed. She stopped at the main one. Filled her cup. Drank. Filled it again.

That’s when he appeared behind her.

Ethan.

His hand landed on her ass like he had the right.

Rage hit me so fast my vision tunneled. That perfect curve belonged to me. Only me.

I watched her flinch. Watched her try to step away. Watched him crowd her against the wall, whispering something that made her face drain of color. She looked terrified. Small. Like she knew exactly what he was capable of.

I slammed my palm on the desk.

“I’ll fucking kill him.”

I grabbed my phone. Dialed her extension. It rang out. Dialed again.

Finally she answered, voice small. “Hello, Mr…?”

“Get to my office. Now.”

I kept the feed open while she hurried down the hall. Derrick watched her go, that smug tilt to his mouth. I zoomed in. Couldn’t read his expression clearly, but I didn’t need to. I knew men like him.

A knock. I barked for her to enter.

Aisha stepped in first. “Sir, you have the board meeting in an hour, and—”

“I know. I’ll handle it.” I waved her out.

She gave a quick bow and a professional smile, then paused at the door. Isabella was approaching. They exchanged a few quiet words—Aisha said something that made Isabella laugh. A real laugh. Soft. Bright. The sound hit me like sunlight after weeks of dark.

Then she was inside.

She stood in front of my desk, eyes glued to the floor. Hands trembling at her sides. That cheap dress clung where the water had soaked through. Shoes scuffed. Hair falling out of its tie. She looked fragile. Exhausted. Nothing like the woman who’d begged under me days ago.

It hurt to see her like this.

“What happened to your dress?” I asked, keeping my voice flat.

She hesitated. Eyes darted everywhere but my face.

“I… I went to get water. Almost tripped on the way back. It spilled.”

Bullshit.

“You almost tripped.”

She swallowed hard.

“I’m talking to you, Angioletto.”

The nickname slipped out sharper than I meant. She flinched.

“There was no water in my office dispenser,” she tried again. “I got thirsty. Tripped coming back.”

Still lying. Still refusing to meet my eyes. What was she hiding?

I leaned forward. “Look at me.”

She did—finally. Those big eyes glassy, scared. Like she thought I was about to fire her. I feel like she always assumed the worse.

“I’m sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again.”

She sat when I nodded toward the chair. Good girl. Always so quick to obey.

I studied her. The way she held herself together even when she was falling apart. The night in New York she hadn’t taken a single bill from the nightstand, even when hundreds were scattered like trash. She could’ve grabbed my watch. My black card. Anything. She didn’t. That kind of honesty is rare. It makes me want to wrap her up and never let the world touch her again.

“I have a headache,” I said.

She stood immediately. Uncertain.

“Aren’t you going to check?”

She nodded. Rushed around the desk. Stood between my knees. Her small hands settled on my head—gentle, careful. She drew me closer until my forehead rested against her stomach. Fingers threaded through my hair, massaging slow circles over my scalp.

Christ.

I closed my eyes. Let myself feel it. Her warmth. Her scent—clean soap and faint vanilla. My cock twitched. I ignored it. Focused on the soft pressure of her fingertips. On the way she didn’t pull away.

Her phone buzzed on the chair across the room.

She didn’t move.

“You going to get that?”

She smiled faintly. Stepped back. Picked it up. The screen lit her face for a second before she angled it away—but not fast enough.

Ethan.

The name burned into my brain.

She ended the call without answering. Walked back. Hesitated.

“I should get something for your headache, Sir.”

I rolled my eyes. Stood. Pointed near the mini fridge in the corner.

“Stay here the rest of the day. Drinks are in there. My head’s fine.”

She looked like she might argue—then thought better of it. Walked slowly back to the chair. Sat.

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered.

The saddest sound I’d ever heard from her.

I straightened my tie. Grabbed my tablet. I should attend my Meeting first. Then I deal with Ethan.

And after that… I deal with her.

No more hiding. No more pretending she doesn’t remember.

She’s mine.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

And the message? I knew she remembered me .

By the time I returned from the board meeting, Isabella was gone.

The office felt emptier without her—chair pushed in neatly, laptop closed, no trace of the faint vanilla scent that clung to her skin. I hadn’t asked her to stay. Hadn’t told her to wait. But part of me expected her to read the unspoken command anyway. She didn’t.

I grabbed the flash drive I’d left on the desk, locked up, and headed home.

The shower hit first thing—hot water pounding my shoulders, steam filling the glass enclosure. My mind went straight to her. Isabella in the rain, dress clinging, hair plastered to her neck, lips parted as I backed her against a wall and...

There’s no such thing as warm rain in London.

Frustrated, I shut off the water, stepped out naked, and froze. My son, Lucian stood by the bed, staring down at my phone.

I didn’t speak. Just crossed to the towel rack, wrapped one low around my hips, then cleared my throat.

He turned. Flat expression. No guilt. No surprise. Just that blank, unreadable look he’s perfected.

Blond hair—nothing like mine or Valentina’s dark waves. Eyes shaped differently. Features that scream her more than me every single day. He acts like her too: secretive, sharp-tongued, quick to resentment. Not to forget they never respected privacy.

I walked over, plucked the phone from his hand. Screen lit with notifications. One missed call: **Angioletto**.

A slow, satisfied smile pulled at my mouth before I could stop it. She’d called. Even if it was a mistake, the name on my screen was hers.

“I know that’s not Mom’s number,” Lucian said flatly.

I forced my face neutral and headed to the walk-in closet. Pulled on navy sleep shorts, nothing else. Rubbed my feet together to shake off lingering water, then dropped onto the bed.

“Nice to see you too, son. My day was great,” I said dryly.

He caught the edge in my tone. Didn’t push. Instead he pulled his own phone from his pocket and held it out.

“I got my test results. Mom came by today. She wants to stay here for a few days.”

“No.”

I didn’t even look at the screen. He waited. I kept staring at the ceiling.

“Why not?”

“Because I said no.”

Silence stretched. Heavy. Familiar. That had always being our father and son conversation.

I finally glanced over. He was pouting—fake, performative, the way kids do when they’ve been coached.

“Your mom put you up to asking.”

He nodded once. Reluctant.

“We could be like other families,” he said quietly.

I exhaled. Softened my voice as much as I could manage.

“You have us. She loves you. I love you. We’re not together, but we’re not enemies. We just… need space to figure things out.”

He didn’t buy it. Scrolled through his phone instead—photos of classmates with both parents at events, vacations, birthdays. Every frame had two adults smiling on either side of a kid. Every frame except his.

He was always with Ethan or Elena. My secretary doubling as emergency driver. His nanny since he was in diapers. Good people. Reliable. But not parents.

Guilt twisted low in my gut.

“I work long hours, Luci. You know that. Tell Ethan ahead of time or text me—I’ll come for whatever you need. School events, games, whatever.”

“I’m twelve. Not stupid.” His face flushed red. Lips trembled. Holding back a storm.

I waited. He had ever right to be angry but his mom and I just can't be together no more.

“If you don’t like Mom, why did you get her pregnant?”

The question landed like a blade.

I couldn’t answer honestly. Couldn’t tell a twelve-year-old that his mother had been a casual hookup who kept showing up, that the sex was addictive enough I let it continue, that she announced a pregnancy I accepted—until I caught her six months along fucking one of my former business partners in my own guest room.

So I said nothing. No need to also tell him I wasn't really in love with his mom.

“Go to sleep, son.”

He yanked the duvet off me. Eyes blazing with that same hate Valentina used to flash when she didn’t get her way.

“That’s rude,” I said calmly, like I was talking to a toddler. “Let Daddy sleep.”

He released the blanket but didn’t move.

“Mom said you’d act like this.”

I sat up slowly. Was she telling him things?

“You should’ve asked her what she did when you were six months in her belly.” I snapped.

My voice stayed even. Anger simmered beneath it but I would not want to hear what he would use against her later. She deserves to be loved from her child.

I got out of bed. Walked to the door. Opened it.

“If you make me come get you again, I’ll send you to stay with your mother for three months. Full time.”

He froze.

Luci hated her place. Hated the revolving door of “visitors,” the small room, the spotty Wi-Fi, the way she left him alone for hours. One week and he’d be begging to come home.

“That’s what I thought.”

He walked out without another word.

I closed the door. Leaned against it. Sighed. I shouldn’t have threatened him. He’s just a kid. Brainwashed by her lies, sure—but still a kid. Still my kid and I love him.

I dropped back onto the bed. Rolled over. Grabbed my phone.

One new message.

From **Angioletto**.

I called my mistake. My phone was in my bag and it kinda bag-dialed. Please forgive me, Sir.

I snorted.

Bag-dialed. Who does that?!

It was barely eight. My thumb hovered over the call button.

No. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I see her in person. Tomorrow I make sure she replaces that entire wardrobe before she “blouse-dials” me in one of her mother’s old blouses.