Chapter 5

Isabella 

The gravel crunched under the sleek tires of Gabriel’s car before I even had a chance to brace myself. I stood near the edge of the balcony, arms crossed over my stomach, the faint curve of my growing bump pressing against my blouse. Three months. Four, maybe. Enough for him to notice if he looked closely—but he didn’t.

He stepped out of the car, impeccably dressed as always. Navy suit, crisp white shirt, polished shoes. Not a hair out of place. Not a hint of apology in the way he carried himself. Not a flicker of recognition for what he’d done—or undone.

Gabriel Thorne walked with the same measured steps I remembered from boardrooms, courtrooms, and every important room we’d ever shared. Commanding, controlled, untouchable. And he had come here, to my vineyard, for business. Nothing else.

I lowered my gaze briefly to my stomach, then lifted my chin. If he noticed, he didn’t acknowledge it. I had expected no less.

“Ms. Reyes,” he said, voice clipped, precise. No warmth, no hesitation. “I assume you are aware of why I’m here.”

I met his gaze evenly, forcing my posture into authority. “Yes. You’re here about the vineyard.”

He nodded once. “Correct. Thorne International is considering acquiring prime vineyard locations in California. Your property fits the specifications.”

“And my answer is?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

“You’re aware of the advantages for a business like mine,” he said, ignoring the unspoken tension between us. “Logistics, brand synergy, distribution channels. This is a business decision, not personal.”

“Good to know,” I said, cool, calm, deliberate. “Because for me, this is personal. It’s my inheritance. My aunt’s legacy. I have no intention of selling.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Noted.” He flipped open a slim leather folder, the smell of paper and ink sharp in the warm air. “Then we proceed as professionals.”

I followed him inside the main house office. He set the folder on the desk with precision, sliding papers toward me like a boardroom negotiation. I adjusted the hem of my blouse over my stomach—my bump subtly pressing against the fabric, visible if he looked—but he didn’t. Of course not. He was here for business, nothing more.

“I’ve reviewed your property details,” he said, voice even, clipped. “Production capacity, soil reports, current market value. Your vineyard meets the criteria for acquisition.”

“And my answer is still the same,” I said firmly, placing my hands on the desk. “I’m not selling. Not now, not ever. This vineyard is my family’s legacy. My aunt entrusted it to me, and I intend to honor that.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly against the desk. “Ms. Reyes, consider the financial implications. Maintaining this property, expanding production, marketing, staffing—it’s a significant undertaking. You’re aware of the risks.”

“I am,” I replied, tone steady. “And I accept them. This is my vineyard. I’ll manage it, grow it, and preserve it. I do not need Thorne International to dictate what happens here.”

He studied me for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he straightened, voice deliberate. “Your decision will impact your long-term profitability. A business like mine could provide stability, expansion, and global distribution.”

“I appreciate your… business acumen,” I said evenly, “but this is not for sale. I will not compromise my aunt’s legacy—or my own future—because your company thinks it has better use for it.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re aware that refusing could slow growth, reduce valuation, and potentially isolate your property in the market.”

“I am,” I said, meeting his gaze. “And I still choose to preserve it. Thorne International will not own this vineyard.”

He straightened fully, closing the folder with a crisp snap. “Very well. Then our interactions here will be limited to professional necessities. No unnecessary interference, no disruptions.”

I nodded, suppressing the flutter in my chest. He was back in my life, but he hadn’t softened. He hadn’t pleaded. He hadn’t acknowledged anything but the facts. Cold. Controlled. Calculated. Just as I remembered.

“Understood,” I said. “And let me be clear, Mr. Thorne: this vineyard is mine. I will not entertain offers, negotiations, or proposals that compromise that.”

His dark eyes held mine, assessing, calculating. Then, with the same precision he used to command boardrooms, he gave a single nod. “Noted.”

The tension in the room was thick, a taut wire strung tight between us. Beneath it, though, something unspoken lingered. A history neither of us would voice, a past neither of us could rewrite. Yet for now, it was irrelevant. Business came first. And Isabella Reyes would not—could not—back down.

He turned toward the door, hand on the handle. The click of the latch echoed in the office, sharp, final, like a gavel.

“Mr. Thorne,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them, voice steady but a fraction softer than before.

He paused. Didn’t turn. Didn’t glance back. “Yes?”

I swallowed, heart picking up pace. “If—” I hesitated, unsure how to phrase it without revealing too much. “If… circumstances were different—if I were—”

He cut me off before I could finish, tone crisp but with the faintest edge of something I couldn’t place. “Circumstances are not different, Ms. Reyes. We are professionals here. Keep your focus on the vineyard.”

I nodded, even as my pulse skipped a beat. His focus. His eyes, unwavering, unyielding, yet for a moment there—a heartbeat I could swear—something softened in his posture.

He opened the door, hand gripping the handle, and paused. Then, without turning to look at me, voice still cool, precise, he said, almost as if testing the air:

“Ms. Reyes… you’re carrying?”

My breath caught. My stomach tightened instinctively. The subtle curve of my bump pressed a little more against my blouse.

I let the words hang for him, letting him process it in silence.

“It’s yours,” I said quietly, firm but calm.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t comment. He simply stepped out, closed the door behind him, and the low rumble of the engine starting outside reached me moments later.

Alone, I pressed both hands to my stomach, heart hammering. A shiver ran through me—not fear, not exactly. Something else. Something sharp, something that felt like… attention. Care. Concern. But distant. Controlled. Hidden.

I leaned against the desk, staring at the door he had just closed. The vineyard. My life. My child. And the man who had once been my everything… still part of all of it, even if only in silence.