Chapter 5 – The Distance I Keep

Dante

The heat of Mauritius is heavy, but the silence between us is heavier.

Isabella stands on the terrace, one hand gripping the railing as she stares at the horizon. The wind catches her dress, whipping the fabric around her legs, but she doesn’t flinch. She doesn't even turn when she hears my boots on the stone.

"You should rest," I say, my voice sounding more like a command than a suggestion. "The flight was long."

She finally glances at me, her eyes as cold as the cabin air we left behind. "I slept on the plane."

"You didn't."

Her mouth curves, a small, sharp edge of a smile. "You were watching me?"

"I was working," I snap, the lie tasting like ash. "You were simply in my line of sight."

She turns back to the water, dismissive. "Then you should know I was awake for most of it."

I do know. I noticed the exact second her breathing changed. I felt it when her fingers tightened on the armrest during the turbulence. I watched when she finally gave up on the stars and just stared at the back of the seat, her spine rigid. I noticed all of it, and I hate myself for it. I shouldn’t be tracking her like a target.

"Rest anyway," I say, my jaw tight. "We’re here for a week. You don't need to see everything today."

"You don't," she says, her voice flat. "I do."

She walks past me without another word, her shoulder brushing mine...a deliberate loss of boundary that she initiates this time. I’m left alone on the terrace with nothing but the ocean and the unwelcome realization that I’ve already failed at keeping my distance.

I go inside, the villa feeling too large and too quiet. I pour a drink I don't want and sit at the desk in the study. I open my laptop. Numbers. Projections. Things that make sense. Things I can control.

I read three lines before I hear her laugh from somewhere deeper in the house.

It isn't loud. Just a short, bright sound that carries through the open windows. I look up, my focus shattered. I lose my place on the screen entirely. I tell myself I’ll return to it later.

I don't. I just sit there, wondering what she’s planning, and why that laugh makes me feel like I’m the one being contracted.

Dinner arrives on the terrace as the sun dips below the horizon. The chef sets everything out and vanishes without a word. Efficient. Professional. Exactly what I pay for.

Isabella sits across from me, her fork moving slowly through the seafood. She isn't eating; she’s dissecting it.

"You don't have to eat it if you don't like it," I say, my voice cutting through the sound of the waves.

She looks up. "I like it."

"You're eating it like it offended you."

"I'm eating it like I'm thinking."

"About what?"

She sets her fork down and folds her hands in her lap, a gesture of controlled defiance. "Tomorrow. There's a market in Grand Baie. I want to go."

I pause mid-reach for my glass. "A market."

"Yes. Local crafts. Spices. Fabrics. I looked it up earlier."

"We have a private beach here," I remind her, my tone dropping an octave. "A chef who will make anything you want. A driver who can bring you whatever you need. You have no reason to leave the gates."

"I don't want it brought here." Her voice is calm, but the firmness in it grates on me. "I want to go myself."

I pick up my glass and take a slow sip, setting it down with more precision than necessary. "It will be crowded. Loud. Full of people you don't know."

"Maybe. That's not a reason not to go."

"It is reason enough to send a servant in your place."

She cuts into her fish with more force than required, the silver scraping against the china. "I didn't come to Mauritius to send someone in my place."

"You came to Mauritius because my mother planned it," I snap, reminding her of the contract that put her in this chair.

Her knife stops moving. She looks at me fully now, and there’s something sharp behind her eyes...a flash of independence I don't particularly like seeing directed at me.

"Yes. She did. But I am here. And I am going to the market."

I should say no. I should remind her that she isn't a private citizen anymore. I lean forward, letting the full weight of my shadow fall across the table.

"You are a Moretti now," I say evenly, each syllable heavy with the power of my family. "Whether you like it or not, people will see my name before they see your face. That name isn't just a label; it’s a standard. You will carry it properly, or you won't carry it at all."

I want her to feel the cage. I want her to understand that her life is no longer her own to direct.

She blinks at me, momentarily silenced by the coldness of my tone. "I honestly don't know what to say to that. But... is that a yes?"

"You want to go to the market? Fine. But you will act appropriately. No wandering off alone. No unnecessary conversations with strangers. You do not give anyone a single reason to think you are unaccompanied or unprotected."

Her fork lowers slowly to her plate, her eyes narrowing as she realizes the "yes" comes with a price.

"You're not coming," she says, realization dawning on her face.

"I have work," I say.

"You always have work."

"Then you already know the answer."

She stares at me, her eyes tracking mine in a long, silent challenge. She nods once and drinks from her glass without breaking contact. When she sets it down, her voice is dangerously calm...the kind of quiet that masks a storm. "I'll go alone, then."

Something tightens in my chest. I ignore it. "The driver will take you. And you will have security."

Her eyebrows lift. "For a market? We didn't even come with security. I didn't see anyone at the airport."

"My team is discreet. You won't even know they're there," I lie. I have no intention of making them invisible. I want her to feel the weight of the Moretti name following her every step. I want her to know she isn't free.

"Fine," she snaps. "But tell them not to interfere."

We finish in a hollow, empty silence. When she retreats to her room, I sit alone on the terrace, nursing a drink and telling myself this distance is exactly what the contract requires.

I don't believe a word of it.

She leaves at dawn. I watch from my window as she slides into the car, her dress the color of a sunrise she isn't sharing with me. I spend three hours staring at a laptop screen, accomplishing nothing but counting the minutes.

When she returns, she’s laughing. The sound is bright, unbothered, and it grates on my nerves. She’s windblown and rumpled, her arms full of bags.

"You're still working," she notes, stopping short.

"What did you buy?" I ask, closing the laptop.

"Spices. A blanket. Jewelry for Gianna. And this." She pulls out a small painting wrapped in brown paper. It’s a seascape...the water is impossibly blue, the brushstrokes loose and hurried.

"How much?" I ask, my internal appraiser already devaluing the amateur work.

"Does it matter?" She crosses her arms.

"You overpaid. How much, Isabella?"

A pause. "Twenty-two thousand euros."

I stare at her, the sheer absurdity of the number hit me. "You paid the price of a car for a souvenir."

"It's original. I wanted it."

"It’s worth eight thousand at most. You let a stranger rob you."

She laughs, and the sound is sharp, mocking my frustration. "I came here to do something other than sit in a beautiful cage, Dante. If my spending offends your sense of control, I can't help you."

The words land like a physical blow. Before I can find a retort, she turns toward the villa.

"There's a botanical garden an hour north," she calls over her shoulder, not looking back. "I’m going tomorrow. You're welcome to come."

She doesn't wait for my answer. She knows I’m trapped by my own rules.

That night on the terrace, she talks without my asking. She tells me about spice vendors and a child who stole her sunglasses only to return them with a grin. I listen, refiling her glass automatically.

When she asks again if I’ll join her for the botanical garden tomorrow, I don't give her the satisfaction of an easy win. "I'll think about it," I say.

She doesn't push. She just nods and leaves me to the stars.

Morning comes, and the quarterly reports on my screen might as well be written in a dead language. I haven’t absorbed a single word in three days. When I hear her door open and her footsteps cross the villa, I shut the laptop.

I find her on the terrace, dressed in pale linen and ready to leave. She doesn't smile when she sees me. She just waits.

"I’m coming with you," I announce.

Her eyebrows lift. "To the garden? I thought you had work."

"I do. But after your outing yesterday, I can’t have you wandering off and handing out thousands of euros to every stranger with a sob story. You clearly can't be trusted to handle the Moretti accounts on your own."

It’s a lie, a cold, logical shield, but it’s better than the truth.

"So you're coming to supervise me?" she asks, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips.

"I’m coming to ensure you don't make another twenty-thousand-euro mistake. Someone has to protect the family interests."

Twenty minutes later, I’m in the car beside her. She looks out the window, that annoying, triumphant smile still fixed on her face.

"You didn't have to come, Dante," she says softly.

"I know."

"Then why did you?"

I don't answer. I can't. Because any honest response makes me sound like exactly what I’ve spent years refusing to be: Possessive. Irrational. Already losing.