Chapter 2: Unwanted Reunion

The morning sunlight crept across Isabel’s bedroom floor like it was sneaking in, afraid to be noticed. She lay still, eyes on the ceiling, the phone clutched to her chest like it might vanish if she let go.

The voicemail was still sitting there.

Unread. Unheard.

She hadn’t slept well—not with that name flashing behind her eyelids all night. Dad. A word that had started to feel more like a wound than a person.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. Then, finally, she exhaled and pressed play.

“Hey, Isa. It’s me. Um… I know it’s been a while.”

Her eyes fluttered shut.

“I won’t waste your time with excuses. I just… I wanted to hear your voice. I miss you. Listen, Vivian’s putting together this family trip thing. A getaway, she called it. Luxury resort in Sicily. Yeah, I know—it’s… a lot. But she really wants you there.”

A pause.

“I know you probably don’t want to see me. But maybe this isn’t about me. Just think about it. Call me back, alright?”

The voicemail ended with a click.

Isabel stared at her phone like it might offer her answers, maybe even closure. But it stayed silent, screen going black again.

She threw the blanket off and padded to the kitchen, barefoot on cold tile. The apartment was still, save for the hum of the old fridge. She made coffee without thinking, the motions automatic: pour water, scoop grounds, flick the switch. But her hands shook when she reached for the mug.

Sicily. A family trip.

She almost laughed. Her father hadn’t visited her in over a year, hadn’t called in months, and now he wanted her to play happy family on some coastal paradise with a woman she barely knew and a stepbrother she’d never met?

She took her coffee to the small table by the window. Outside, kids rode their bikes in loops and loops around the cracked sidewalk. She sipped the bitter brew, her thoughts louder than the world around her.

Part of her wanted to delete the message, block the number, and bury it like she’d buried so many of his promises.

But another part… a quieter, weaker part… wanted to see what was left of the man who used to tuck her in at night, hum off-key lullabies, and chase monsters from under the bed.

Her phone buzzed again.

Dad – Incoming Call

Isabel flinched.

Then she answered.

“…Hello?”

“Isa.” The voice on the other end sounded relieved. “Thank you for picking up.”

“I’m not staying long,” she said sharply.

“That’s fair,” he replied. “I just wanted to say it in person. Vivian’s been planning this for months. It’s important to her. And to me.”

“I don’t even know her.”

“You’ll get to know her,” he said gently. “You’ll like her. And Alessandro—he’s her son—he’s the one who made all the arrangements. You’ll have your own room, your space, everything you need.”

“I don’t need a vacation,” Isabel said. “I need to pay for college.”

“I know. I know you’re working hard. You always do. But just… come for a few days. We’ll talk. There’s something about being away from all this, you know? Might help.”

Isabel stared out the window. A little girl had fallen off her bike and was picking herself up, brushing gravel from her knees. Her eyes stung unexpectedly.

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“Vivian really wants this,” he said again. “She’s been trying so hard to connect. And I know I’ve messed up. I know I hurt you. But this… it’s a step. It’s something.”

Isabel was quiet for a long time.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low. “When?”

“Friday. We leave in the morning. We’ll go as a family. I’ll text you everything.”

“I’ll find my way to the place.”

There was a pause.

“Your stepbrother made the bookings. We’ll see you Friday.”

The line went dead.

Isabel stared at the phone long after the call ended, her thumb hovering over the screen like it might ring again. Her father’s words echoed inside her like a dull throb: “Vivian really wants this. Your stepbrother made the bookings—we’ll see you Friday.”

Friday.

She dropped the phone on the couch and stood there, frozen, her arms crossed tight against her chest like they could hold back whatever this was—this ache, this irritation, this sick churn of confusion.

A family trip.

To a resort.

After months of silence.

She didn’t know whether to scream or laugh.

Her father hadn’t even asked how she was. Not really. He’d said he missed her, but it sounded like a line rehearsed in someone else’s mirror. A peace offering, maybe. Or a bribe.

Her shoulders sagged.

This was Vivian’s doing. Of course it was. That woman had always tried too hard to play mother, pushing herself into Isabel’s life like some over-perfumed placeholder.

And stepbrother?

Isabel had never even met the guy.

“Earth to Isabel,” Jenna said from the hallway, arms full of a plastic bag bursting with makeup and hairspray. “Did you die in here?”

Isabel didn’t answer.

Jenna stepped into the room and frowned. “Okay, what happened? You look like someone canceled Christmas.”

“My dad,” Isabel said quietly. “He wants me to come on some family trip. Sicily. A bonding thing.”

Jenna blinked. “Wait, I was even shocked last night, your dad called? Like, Albert the Ghost?”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit. That’s… random.”

Isabel sat down, slow and stiff. “I haven’t spoken to him since the wedding.”

“Which was, like… what, almost a year ago?” Jenna sank beside her on the couch. “That’s shady timing. Why now?”

“He didn’t say.” Isabel’s voice cracked, and she hated that. “Just that Vivian wants it. And that my stepbrother made the arrangements.”

Jenna turned her head slowly. “You have a stepbrother?”

“Apparently.”

“Well that’s new. What do you even know about him?”

“Nothing.” Isabel rubbed her forehead. “I didn’t go to the wedding. I didn’t ask. And my dad never brought him up before.”

Jenna was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “I mean, if they’re offering an all-expense-paid trip to some five-star resort in Sicily, I’m not saying go, but maybe don’t burn the invite just yet.”

Isabel shot her a look. “It’s not about the trip.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s about him calling only because she asked him to. About being left out of his life until it’s convenient for her image. It’s about him pretending like everything’s fine when he never once came to visit or even asked me how school was going.”

Jenna sighed. “Babe, I get it. I do. He screwed up. But you’re not hurting him by saying no. You’re just giving him one less chance to fix it.”

Isabel stared at her knees.

“Besides,” Jenna added lightly, nudging her, “what if your stepbrother is some awkward trust fund nerd with acne and social anxiety? You’ll survive.”

That earned a faint smile. “Why are you like this?”

“Because if I don’t make you laugh, you’ll wallow. And if you wallow, we’ll be late to the club, and then I’ll be poor and pretty with no makeup money.”

Isabel leaned back into the couch, her thoughts tangled and raw.

Was it worth it?

To show up and be polite for a few days?

Could she keep her walls up long enough not to care?

“Are you gonna go?” Jenna asked.

“I don’t know,” Isabel whispered.

She did know. Part of her had already said yes. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe because some tiny, bruised part of her still wanted to be seen by the man who used to braid her hair before school and whisper, You’re stronger than the world thinks.

She hated that she still wanted that.

“Come on,” Jenna said, pulling her up by the wrist. “You can cry about rich-people problems later. Right now, we’ve got fake lashes to glue and heels to break in.”

Isabel let out a breath and followed her.

She didn’t feel ready.

For anything.

But maybe pretending was better than feeling.

—————

High above the city, the top floor of the De’Luca Tower shimmered with white glass, gold accents, and silence broken only by the low hum of voices and the sharp clink of whiskey tumblers.

Alessandro De’Luca leaned back in his leather chair, fingers steepled, a slight curve to his mouth that wasn’t quite a smile.

He didn’t smile often. He didn’t need to.

The deal had closed.

Ten million euro. Clean. Quick. Wrapped up in less time than it took most men to sign a mortgage.

The boardroom still buzzed with the aftershock—his team clustered in twos and threes, voices low, energy electric. They were too smart to cheer, but the satisfaction was thick in the air. Like blood after a hunt.

“Beautifully done, boss,” Marco said, lifting his glass. “That London investor didn’t know what hit him.”

“London investors rarely do,” Alessandro replied, voice smooth. “They get lost in charm. Then numbers.”

Laughter rolled lightly through the room.

Alessandro stood. Tailored navy suit, no tie, cuffs unbuttoned just enough to feel like rebellion. He moved with the quiet confidence of a man used to being obeyed before he finished speaking.

“Where’s Luca?” he asked.

“Talking to the legal team downstairs.”

“Tell him to wrap it up. We’re celebrating.”

Marco raised a brow. “Here?”

“No,” Alessandro said. He stepped to the window, looking down on the glittering sprawl of Milan. “We’ve earned something more… entertaining.”

A pause.

“The club?” Marco asked.

Alessandro’s gaze sharpened.

“Which one?”

“The new one—the one with the no-phones policy. Private booths, live shows, top-tier girls. Discreet, luxurious, and very expensive.”

“Sounds like a dream.”

Alessandro turned back to the room. “Tell the driver. And make sure they prep the executive lounge.”

“Yes, sir.”

He checked his watch. Almost nine. Late enough that the crowd would be warm. Not so late that the good ones had left.

He didn’t need entertainment. Not really. But tonight, it felt… appropriate. He’d kept his hands clean for months. Focused. Strategic. The cold grind of business left little room for indulgence.

But even wolves needed to feed.

As the men began to filter out, Alessandro lingered. His phone buzzed on the table.

Vivian.

He almost didn’t answer.

Almost.

He picked it up.

“Yes?”

“You didn’t forget, did you?” Her voice was clipped, soft in a way that meant controlled annoyance. “The resort. The arrangements.”

“I made the bookings, didn’t I?”

“You haven’t confirmed with the staff.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“You’re not dodging the trip?”

Alessandro exhaled through his nose. “Do I sound like a man who dodges anything?”

A pause.

“No,” Vivian said. “You sound like your father.”

He didn’t respond to that.

“I want this to go smoothly,” she added. “Albert’s daughter is attending. I don’t need drama.”

“Neither do I. But if she brings it, I won’t pretend.”

“Don’t provoke her.”

“I don’t provoke,” Alessandro said. “I react.”

Then he hung up.

For a moment, he stood still.

Albert’s daughter.

He hadn’t met her. Hadn’t cared to. Some plain little girl from a lower tax bracket. Spoiled by struggle, probably. Bitter. Sharp-tongued. One of those girls who’d resent his money and hate him for existing.

He was not in the mood for sentimental family games.

Still.

Sicily was a small price to pay for keeping the peace with Vivian. And who knew? Maybe the girl would be smart enough to stay out of his way.

He grabbed his coat and followed the others out.

The night was just beginning.

The private entrance of Club D’Argento gleamed under soft, amber lights. From the outside, it looked more like a luxury hotel than a place where champagne met silk and shadows. A pair of sharply dressed bouncers opened the doors before Alessandro even reached them.

“Mr. De’Luca,” one of them greeted with a nod. “Executive lounge is ready.”

Alessandro didn’t reply—he simply walked through, his coat draped over his arm, suit immaculate despite the long day.

Inside, the club pulsed with low music and velvet-dark lighting. Crystal chandeliers cast warm halos over sculpted furniture, and the scent of cologne, expensive liquor, and faint rose filled the air.

He moved through it like it belonged to him.

Behind him, Marco and Luca peeled off toward the bar, already laughing about something crass. Alessandro ignored them, heading straight to the upper level where the velvet rope opened on sight.

The executive lounge was quieter, dimmer—smoke glass, leather booths, and tinted windows overlooking the main floor below. A waitress with long black hair and legs that never seemed to end met him at the stairs.

“Your usual?” she purred.

“Neat. No ice.”

“Of course, Mr. De’Luca.”

He slid into the booth, loosening his cuffs, the weight of the day easing from his shoulders.

Below, the first of the stage girls had begun her slow, practiced dance. He watched her without interest. It wasn’t the show that drew him. It was the power. The knowledge that every man in this room, no matter how loud or rich, knew exactly who he was—and exactly where not to look.

Still, something buzzed under his skin tonight. Not restlessness. Not boredom.

Anticipation.

He checked his watch. Almost ten.

Outside, the line had started to curl around the block—new blood, desperate to be part of something they didn’t understand. And somewhere in that line, two girls would walk past security with forged names and wide eyes, thinking they were stepping into a night of harmless thrills.

Not yet.