Chapter 5

Isabella was sitting in the middle of her bed, surrounded by pencils, fabric swatches, and sheets of paper covered in sketches, when her phone screen lit up with a message from Thomas.

Thomas: I'm sorry, sweetheart. I have an urgent meeting. I won't be able to make it home for dinner.

Isabella read the message and discovered, with a certain sense of satisfaction, that it stirred absolutely nothing inside her.

No disappointment, no sadness, not even the quiet anger that, months earlier, would have kept her awake until she heard the front door open.

She'd had an extraordinarily good day, and there was still a smile lingering on her face that had a great deal to do with two orgasms which, for the first time in a very long while, hadn't been the work of her own hand.

She checked the time and decided she ought to at least play her part.

Isabella: Today is the anniversary of when we started dating. We were supposed to have dinner together.

The lie brought a small smile to her lips. Not because it wasn't their anniversary. It was. But there was no dinner waiting for Thomas.

Isabella had prepared a meal for one, eaten it in peace, and had already been in her pajamas for over an hour when his message arrived. She knew perfectly well that Thomas wouldn't be coming home. The cameras at the country house had detected movement hours earlier.

Her phone vibrated again.

Thomas: I know. Forgive me, my love. I promise I'll make it up to you.

Isabella studied those last few words for several seconds.

Perfect.

One less necklace to worry about.

If she knew Thomas as well as she believed she did, he'd show up in a couple of days with a carefully wrapped box, a rehearsed apology, and a piece of jewelry expensive enough to soothe his conscience.

That would leave only two.

She replied with a heart emoji that meant absolutely nothing and tossed her phone onto the bed.

Then she picked up her pencil again.

The sketch in front of her had taken shape earlier that afternoon, when a sudden idea had compelled her to pull out her sketchbook and start drawing. She still wasn't satisfied with the way the skirt fell, so she erased one of the lines and redrew it with a softer stroke, imagining how the fabric would move as the wearer walked.

She needed to strengthen her portfolio.

For far too long, the idea of designing and creating haute couture gowns had belonged to that category of dreams that would always begin ‘someday’. Now, that someday had an address, a bank account, and even an approximate date.

She'd already found the perfect location.

The renovations were almost finished, and although Thomas had no idea, he'd contributed quite generously to financing them. The monthly deposits he made into her account, some of the jewelry Isabella had sold, and her almost obsessive management of money over the past several months had gradually transformed into freshly painted walls, furniture, sewing machines, and materials.

She'd even had a small room fitted out in the back.

It wasn't pretty. There would barely be enough space for a bed, a nightstand, and a few personal belongings. But it had a door she could lock from the inside, and if Thomas followed through on the threat he'd hinted at so many times —that he would leave her with nothing if she ever dared to walk away— Isabella would at least have somewhere to sleep while she found an apartment of her own.

She had no intention of leaving one marriage only to discover that she was still dependent on a man, least of all the very same man who had betrayed her.

And so she continued drawing, one line after another, each stroke bringing her a little closer to a life in which Thomas Vaughn would no longer matter.

*****

Several miles away, Harvey Sterling was twirling Isabella's panties around his finger as though they were some ridiculous prize he'd won at a carnival.

He was alone in his office, and he should have been working.

Instead, he was absentmindedly spinning the delicate garment around one finger, a smile appearing every time he remembered its owner raising an eyebrow when she realized he intended to keep it.

«Are you planning to have me walk around in a skirt without panties?»

Yes. He had definitely spent far too much time thinking about that throughout the afternoon.

Harvey let the garment fall onto his desk and leaned back in his chair.

Several hours had passed, yet he could still remember with far too much precision the way Isabella had looked at him as he left that bathroom. There had been no regret in her eyes, no guilt, not even the discomfort that usually followed doing something one knew one shouldn't have done.

There had been satisfaction, and he'd liked that perhaps a little more than he should have.

He tried to remember the last time he'd had a truly memorable encounter with Theresa and realized he couldn't.

Not because they'd never had good sex. They had. But somewhere along the way, it had become just another extension of their marriage: familiar, predictable, and sufficiently satisfactory that neither of them had ever felt the need to question it.

What had happened that afternoon had been anything but predictable.

Isabella had exceeded his expectations.

By a considerable margin.

And although he had no intention of admitting it aloud, he wanted her to accept his invitation and call him so they could do it again.

He placed her panties in the bottom drawer of his desk and locked it.

He had absolutely no intention of handing Theresa information she could use against him before he was ready to show his cards.

The evidence Isabella had provided was already in his attorney's hands. They'd spoken that very afternoon, and the process of preparing the divorce settlement had begun.

Harvey wanted it done quickly, cleanly, and, above all, on his own terms.

He expected the news to set off a domino effect. Once Theresa understood that their marriage was over, perhaps her lover would make a decision about his own.

And that inevitably brought his thoughts back to Isabella.

He'd considered offering her money, but the idea hadn't lasted long.

After meeting her, he'd realized that handing Isabella Vaughn a check would probably be the most efficient way to ensure she never spoke to him again.

It wasn't that she didn't need money. She did. That much had become abundantly clear during lunch, but Isabella possessed something Harvey respected far more: pride.

She wasn't waiting for someone to come along and rescue her. She'd endured a situation she despised for months because she was meticulously building her own way out.

She had a plan, and although Harvey could have accelerated many things with a bank transfer and a signature, he suspected that doing so without being asked would mean treating her in precisely the way she refused to be treated: like a woman incapable of managing her own life.

Besides, there was another, considerably less noble reason why he didn't want to ruin things.

He wanted to see her again.

Harvey opened the drawer once more.

He stared at the panties for a moment before letting out a laugh as he realized just how ridiculous he was being.

Then he closed it again.

Patience had never been one of his virtues, but for the first time in a very long while, he'd found something worth practicing it for.

Or rather, someone.