Saturday morning arrived with the kind of perfect autumn weather that felt like mockery. Isabella stood in her cramped apartment bathroom, staring at her reflection and wondering when exactly her life had become a disaster movie.
Her phone propped against the mirror, FaceTime connecting with her mother's house in Queens.
"Mama!" Lily's face filled the screen, gap-toothed smile so bright it hurt to look at. She'd lost her first tooth last week—a milestone Isabella had missed because she'd been working late. Again.
"Hi, baby girl." Isabella forced cheerfulness into her voice, very aware of the time. Nine a.m. She had exactly five hours before Patricia arrived with whatever torture devices passed for formal wear.
"Look what I drew!" Lily held up a piece of construction paper, covered in crayon strokes that might have been a horse. Or maybe a dog. Possibly a dragon. "It's a unicorn! With sparkles!"
"It's beautiful." Isabella's throat tightened. "You're so talented, sweetie."
"Mrs. Rodriguez said I'm the best artist in class." Lily's pride was infectious. "Mama, when are you coming to visit? Grandma says you're busy with your new job, but I miss you."
I miss you too. I miss you so much I can barely breathe some nights.
"Soon, baby. I promise. This weekend has been crazy, but next week—"
"You said that last weekend," Lily interrupted, her smile dimming. "And the weekend before."
Guilt stabbed through Isabella's chest. "I know. I'm sorry. But mama's working really hard to make sure we have—"
Footsteps in the hallway outside. Isabella's eyes darted to her watch. 9:03. Patricia wasn't supposed to be here until two.
"Lily, I have to go," she said quickly. "Be good for Grandma, okay? I love you so, so much."
"Love you too, mama." Lily's face scrunched up. "When can I meet your new boss? Grandma says he's very important."
Never. Hopefully never. Or maybe tonight, when he figures out you exist, and my entire world implodes.
"We'll see, sweetheart. Bye!"
She ended the call just as a sharp knock sounded. Not Patricia's efficient double-tap. Something more aggressive.
Isabella opened the door to find Alexander Cross standing in her hallway, looking impossibly out of place in his charcoal suit among the chipped paint and worn carpet.
"What are you—" she started.
"Change of plans." He pushed past her into the apartment, and Isabella's stomach dropped as his sharp eyes took in everything: the modest furniture, the stack of bills on the kitchen counter, the photo collage on the wall that she prayed he wouldn't examine too closely. "Patricia's sick. I'll be taking you shopping."
"That's really not necessary—"
"I wasn't asking, Isabella." He turned to face her, and she realized with horror that he was standing directly in front of the photo wall. One subtle shift of his gaze and he'd see them: pictures of Lily. Lily as a newborn. Lily's first birthday. Lily at preschool. A whole secret life displayed in 4x6 glossy prints.
Isabella moved quickly, positioning herself between Alexander and the photos. "I can go shopping alone. You don't need to—"
"I want to." His voice dropped to something dangerous. "Consider it quality time with my new director of market analysis. We should get to know each other better. Don't you think?"
The way he said it made Isabella's skin prickle. Like he knew she was hiding something. Like he was testing her.
"Fine." She grabbed her purse. "Let me just—"
"Now, Isabella."
She fled into her bedroom, closing the door behind her with shaking hands. Through the thin walls, she could hear Alexander moving around her living room. Opening cabinets? Examining her bookshelf? She didn't have time to find out.
Isabella quickly changed into jeans and a sweater, trying to ignore the tremor in her hands. When she emerged, Alexander was standing exactly where she'd left him, but something in his expression had shifted.
"Ready?" he asked, too casually.
"Yes. Let's go."
They drove in silence, Alexander's Bentley purring through Manhattan traffic. Isabella kept her eyes fixed out the window, hyperaware of the man beside her. His hands on the steering wheel—those hands that had once traced every inch of her skin. The set of his jaw. The way he kept glancing at her when he thought she wasn't looking.
"You have a nice apartment," he said finally, his tone carefully neutral.
"It's fine."
"Small, though. For someone with your salary at your previous company." A pause. "Expensive area too. Queens isn't cheap anymore."
Isabella's heart hammered. "I like my neighborhood."
"I'm sure you do." Another pause, weighted. "Must be quiet. Good for… families."
He knows. Oh God, he knows something.
"It's just me," Isabella said quickly. Too quickly. "Quiet is good for work. I can focus."
Alexander's hands tightened on the wheel. "Right. Just you."
They pulled up to a boutique on Fifth Avenue, the kind of place where price tags were considered vulgar, and everything cost more than Isabella's monthly rent. A saleswoman materialized immediately, all smiles and solicitousness, upon recognizing Alexander.
"Mr. Cross! How wonderful to see you. How can we help you today?"
"We need a gown," Alexander said, his hand settling on the small of Isabella's back. The touch sent electricity up her spine, muscle memory responding before her brain could intervene. "For tonight's Blackwood gala. Something… memorable."
The following two hours were torture. Isabella was measured, draped, assessed, and dressed like a doll while Alexander sat in a leather chair, sipping scotch and offering opinions.
"No, not that color."
"The neckline is wrong."
"Too conservative."
Finally, the saleswoman emerged with a dress that made Isabella's breath catch. Cobalt blue silk, precisely like the one she'd worn in Hong Kong. The same empire waist, the same flowing skirt, the same subtle shimmer in the fabric.
"This just came in from Paris," the saleswoman gushed. "One of a kind. And I think—" she held it up against Isabella, "—perfect."
Isabella looked at Alexander. His expression had gone carefully blank, but his eyes… his eyes were burning.
"Try it on," he said, his voice rough.
The dress fit like it had been made for her. Isabella stared at her reflection in the fitting room mirror and saw a ghost—the woman she'd been five years ago, young and hopeful and desperately in love, wearing this same color on the night that had changed everything.
When she stepped out, Alexander stood abruptly. He crossed the distance between them in three strides, stopping so close she could count his eyelashes.
"Perfect," he murmured. Then, to the saleswoman: "We'll take it. And shoes, jewelry, everything she needs."
"Alexander, this is too much—"
"I insist." His fingers brushed her cheek, the gesture achingly familiar. "You'll be representing me tonight, Isabella. I want you to look—" he paused, and something raw flickered in his expression, "—like you belong at my side."
Back at her apartment, hours later, Isabella locked herself in the bathroom to call her mother.
"Everything okay for tonight?" she asked, watching the door nervously.
"Of course, mija." Her mother's voice was warm, slightly accented. "Lily is already asleep. She was so excited about her playdate tomorrow that she wore herself out." A pause. "This job… Is it good for you? You sound tired."
I'm terrified. I'm working for my daughter's father, who doesn't know she exists; his mother already tried to destroy me once, and I'm about to walk into a room full of people who could expose everything.
"It's fine, Mama. Great. I'll be there tomorrow morning, I promise."
After she hung up, Isabella stared at her reflection. The blue dress hung on the back of the door, mocking her with its beauty. In a few hours, she'd put it on, paste on a smile, and pretend her entire world wasn't balanced on a knife's edge.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
The car will arrive at 7:30. Don't be late. - Alexander
Then, a moment later:
And Isabella? Wear your hair down—the way you used to.