Isabela's week spun by like a carousel, fast, bright, and dizzying. By sunrise she was at Vivienne Couture, immersed in fabric, sketches, and fittings, preparing her small collection for the fashion show. It was her chance, her dream unfolding stitch by stitch. By noon, she was back at the penthouse, juggling Ethan's wardrobe, dietary plan, and his carefully scheduled appointments. Two full-time jobs, one life, no room to breathe.
At Vivienne's, her colleagues whispered behind her back, sharp remarks hidden in polite smiles. Clara was the worst, snide about Isabela's "billionaire babysitting." But Isabela let their bitterness roll off her. The sketches spoke for her. The way Vivienne leaned over her shoulder, nodding at her designs, told her she was on the right path.
At the penthouse, things felt quieter but heavier. Ethan's absence lingered in the walls. She checked in with his trainer, confirmed meals with the chef, and filed away receipts from his appointments. Everything ran smoothly, almost too smoothly.
That evening, as she finished a final sketch, her phone buzzed. Ethan.
His voice was quieter than usual, weighed down by something unsaid. They slipped into easy conversation, her updates on the fashion show, his chuckle when she mimicked Clara's snobbish tone, the way his silence stretched whenever she asked about the trip.
"How was it?" she asked finally.
"…Productive," he said. The single word carried layers, but he gave her nothing more.
They drifted to safer ground. "And Tom?" Ethan asked, the edge in his voice impossible to miss.
"We've been keeping our distance," she replied. "No problems so far." She could almost hear his exhale of relief.
When the call ended, she slumped back in her chair, exhaustion flooding in. Yet beneath it, there was pride. She was building a name for herself, shaping Ethan's return, and for once she felt her life had momentum.
She didn't see the danger. Didn't hear the whispers crawling closer in the shadows. Didn't sense that Ethan's storm, the one he'd been warned of in the prison, was already circling, and she was standing directly in its path.