Isabella's pov
By mid-morning, my desk looked like it belonged to someone who'd been CEO for a decade, not three days. Folders stacked like towers, contracts flagged with red tabs, a fresh schedule on the screen Linda had bullied me into syncing with hers.
She was in the corner now, perched on the edge of her chair with her laptop, tapping furiously as she muttered to herself. "Board call at three, press statement draft needs revisions, coffee budget is criminal…"
"Linda," I said without looking up.
"Yeah?"
"Breathe."
She shot me a grin over the screen. "Bossy already. I like it."
Her chatter made the office feel less like a lion's den and more like a… manageable storm. But even with her buffer, the weight pressed down: the stares in the lobby, the sideways glances in the elevator, the way whispers hushed the second I walked into a room.
It reminded me of my mother.
I saw her suddenly — clear as if she were in front of me. Sitting at the kitchen table of our tiny apartment, chain-smoking, eyes sharp as razors as she told me, "People will always want to cut you down, Bella. Make them choke on it instead."
I'd been fifteen. Angry. Tired of the sideways looks, the rumors, the pity. And she'd been right. I'd learned to wear my armor that day. To hold my chin up even when my hands shook.
But now, with the company on my shoulders and shadows circling me, I felt that same crack forming again. And every time it did, I thought of him.
Carlos.
The way he'd stood next to me when the reporters fired questions like bullets. The steady weight of his voice cutting through the chaos. The dark, unreadable eyes that seemed to see straight through my mask, even when no one else could.
I pressed my lips together, forcing the thought away. He wasn't an ally. He wasn't a friend. He was… a shadow. A man paid to clean up blood.
And yet… My fingers tightened around the pen in my hand. I hated that my thoughts kept drifting back to him. Hated it even more that part of me wanted them to.
Linda had just darted out to "harass the coffee machine into submission" when my office door swung open without a knock.
Adrian.
Of course. Perfectly tailored suit, a smile that was more weapon than warmth. He leaned against the doorframe like he owned it, arms folded.
"Cozy little setup you've got here," he said. "Dad's chair fits you?"
I set my pen down, meeting his gaze head-on. "What do you want, Adrian?"
He pushed off the frame and stepped inside, slow, deliberate. "I wanted to see how the empire's new queen is settling in. Big shoes to fill. And you know, some of us actually knew him better than others."
There it was. The jab.
I leaned back in my chair, keeping my voice even. "You mean legitimate sons? I'm familiar with the script."
His smile tightened. "Oh, come on, Izzy. No need to get defensive. We both know how this looks. The mistress's daughter suddenly in charge. Half the board barely hides their disgust. And honestly, can you blame them? Your mother never belonged here. And neither did you."
My nails bit into my palm, but I didn't let him see it. "Funny, Adrian. For someone so sure I don't belong, you seem awfully nervous about me sitting in this chair."
His jaw ticked. "Nervous? No. Annoyed, maybe. Because every hour you play dress-up with Sterling Global, you make us all look weaker. Investors notice. The press notices. And when it all comes crashing down, it won't be me they blame."
"Except," I said, standing slowly so we were eye to eye, "when it crashes, I'll still be holding the controlling shares. And you'll still be just Richard Sterling's son. Not his heir."
The air went sharp between us. His smile vanished, replaced with something colder.
"You think shares are the same as blood?" he hissed.
I tilted my head. "I think blood never saved anyone. Ask Dad."
For a second, he looked like he might snap. Then he smoothed his tie, forced his smile back into place, and stepped toward the door.
"This isn't over," he said softly. "Not even close."
"Good," I called after him. "I'd hate for it to get boring."
The door shut, leaving silence in his wake. My pulse thundered, but I didn't let myself sit down. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
The echo of Adrian's footsteps had barely faded down the hall when the door opened again.
Carlos.
He didn't bother with pleasantries. He never does. He closed the door behind him, calm as a shadow, and stepped toward my desk.
"You look like you're ready to break something," he said.
I forced a smile. "My stepbrother has that effect."
His eyes flicked toward the door Adrian had just stormed through. "He's rattled. That's good."
"Good?" I snapped. "He just accused me of playing dress-up with my father's company. He's practically campaigning to see me fail."
"Which means he sees you as a threat." Carlos's voice was even, steady, the exact opposite of the storm in my chest. "That's leverage. Use it."
I exhaled sharply, turning away, bracing my hands on the edge of the desk. "What did you find?"
That made him pause. A beat of silence before he said, "Torres traced the number. The one sending the messages."
My heart kicked. "And?"
"It's not an investor. Not a board member. Not Adrian." He stepped closer, lowering his voice like the walls might be listening. "It's a detective. Name's Marlowe."
The room tilted, just slightly. "A detective?"
Carlos nodded once. "Private, not NYPD. Used to work homicide. Good reputation. Left the force a few years back."
I sank slowly into my chair. The messages replayed in my head — He trusted the wrong people. Don't make the same mistake.
If this was coming from a detective, it wasn't just some twisted prank.
"Why would a detective be watching me?" I whispered.
"That," Carlos said, his eyes never leaving mine, "is the question you need to ask him."
My hand shook only once as I reached for the phone. I pulled up the number Torres had uncovered, staring at it like it might bite me.
Carlos watched silently, unreadable as ever, while I pressed call. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. Then a rough, steady voice picked up.
"This is Marlowe."