3

Chapter three

Isabella

“You don’t get it, do you?” My father barks at me, and I have to force myself to remain neutral. 

Don’t show any emotion, Isabella. He’ll be more pissed.

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking anywhere but at him. “It won’t happen again.”

He laughs coldly. “I told you, time and time again, that you are not to come downstairs when I’m in a meeting.”

“I didn’t know you were in a meeting, dad,” I sigh, running my fingers through the strands of my hair. “Really. I didn’t know.”

“Did anyone see you?” He asks, watching me with a void of emotion on his face. “Answer me, girl. Did any of the men see you?”

I shake my head, lying. 

No one saw me downstairs. The pretty stranger did see me though. But I don’t tell him that. He doesn’t have to know. It’s not like the stranger saw me while I was standing in front of the meeting room. I was in my room. So technically, I didn’t break any of my father’s stupid rules. 

“What was that?” He presses.

My jaw clenches. “No one saw me downstairs, dad. The door was locked and I was already in my room when your meeting was over.”

“But you still broke one of my rules, Bella,” his voice is softer when he speaks now, a finger trailing my jaw. “You have to be punished. Hmm?” 

“I didn’t break your rules. This meeting wasn’t planned— you said so yourself. I had no idea it was taking place,” I argue and curse myself, realizing I shouldn’t be talking back to him. I realize it too late. 

He already slapped me. 

His hand is around my throat, grip tightening as he speaks in a low voice. “You do not talk back,” he hisses, slamming me against the wall behind me. “You’re forgetting the rules, Isabella. Do I need to remind you of all the rules again?” 

I shake my head, closing my eyes as I struggle to breathe. “I… I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“It better fucking not.”

Then he releases me and steps back, dusting his suit. He always wears a suit. It’s dark blue today. 

I used to wonder how a man who always looks so composed could be a monster to his own daughter. I slowly realized that a monster could be in any shape or form. He might be rich and a complete asshole. His dressing style is just a ruse to hide what he really is. A cold-hearted prick. 

“You’re lucky I have a meeting to get to,” he says, glaring at me. “Behave while I’m gone.” 

“Can I go out?” I ask. 

His jaw clenches. “No.”

“Please. I want to go out,” I press, playing with the bracelet around my wrist. “I feel suffocated in this house.”

“That’s not my fucking problem!” He snaps, turning around only to add, “And don’t you dare go out without my permission. I’ll make sure you never see your mother again otherwise.”

And just like that, any plans I was mentally making to go out without him finding out are ruined. 

—

The place is packed. I’m not surprised. 

Events like this are always filled with people— all of them wearing fancy outfits. Either they’re laughing too loud, or sipping glasses of champagne. 

I, myself, am on my second glass of champagne. I’m standing in a corner, watching my father talk with his associates. I miss my mother in times like these. At least I’d have some with me. Someone to talk to. Someone who simply listens. 

“Oh my god, I love your dress!” A girl says to me. I didn’t even notice her approaching. Her eyes trail down the black dress I’m wearing. 

I force a smile. “Thank you. I like yours too.” 

I don’t. 

She’s wearing a revealing golden dress as if she’s seconds away from giving someone a lap dance. 

“Omg really?” She almost screams, giving me a twirl. 

I keep my mask of interest on. “Uh-huh.”

“You’re Isabella Hawthorne, right?” She asks. 

I nod, emptying the glass of champagne down my throat. This should give me the energy required to keep this conversation going even though that’s the last thing I want to do. 

“And you are…” I trail off. 

“I’m Rosaline,” she introduces herself. “Daughter of the owner of this place. My father is friends with yours.”

“I see,” I smile, my eyes settling on the balcony. 

There. I want to go there. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” I step aside, gesturing to the balcony. “I need some fresh air.”

“Oh okay. It was nice meeting you!” She yells behind me as I walk away from her.

I don’t mind human interactions. I just don’t like talking to people in places like this one. They’re all fake — pretending to be someone they’re not. Like my father.

Finally. Some freedom.

I can still hear the classical music from inside, but at least I’m not inside. I’m tired of being trapped behind walls and polite smiles.

I tilt my head back and look at the moon staring down at me, a small smile tugging at my lips. Another real thing — something humans can’t touch, can’t ruin.

I know someone’s standing beside me. I noticed the second he walked over, but I don’t bother looking. He smells nice, clean, warm — but the moon has all my attention. The stars, too. Maybe it’s the freedom of it all that keeps me staring.

“You know one fact about the stars?” I ask, still watching the sky. When he doesn’t answer, I keep going, my voice quiet but steady. 

“Most of them might already be dead.”

The words hang there between us. “Their light just hasn’t stopped reaching us yet. It’s kind of sad, isn’t it? How something can be gone and still look alive.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. The air between us feels heavier than before, charged.

Then, finally, he says, “Maybe it’s not sad. Maybe it’s beautiful.” His voice is low, steady — the kind of tone that sounds like truth. “Or maybe it’s proof that even when something’s gone, it still leaves a mark.”

Something about the way he says it makes me look at him — and the second I do, my heart stops.

It’s him.

The stranger from the house. The one who stood in the rain talking to my father, his dark hair is slightly messy, tattoos glinting under the gray sky. The one I swore I wouldn’t think about again.

“You,” I whisper, barely breathing the word.

He meets my eyes, those same cold grey ones, softer now. “Me,” he says, a faint smirk touching his lips. 

For a second I just stare, caught between disbelief and something that feels dangerously close to curiosity. The music from inside is distant now, muffled beneath the sound of my heartbeat.

He’s really here. The same man who’d stood with my father in the yard just a week ago. 

“What are you doing here?” The question slips out before I can stop it. My voice sounds smaller than I want it to.

His shoulders lift slightly. “Working,” he says. No hesitation, no explanation. Just that.

“With my father?”

A pause. Then the ghost of a grin. “Something like that.”

I should walk away. I should. But instead I keep looking at him. Up close, he’s sharper, more real — the tattoos at his wrist disappearing beneath his sleeve, his hair still a little damp, his eyes calm in a way that makes me restless.

He tilts his head, studying me. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“Neither should you,” I say before I can think about it.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But then again, some of us don’t follow the rules very well.”

He shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be talking to him. My father’s voice is somewhere in the back of my mind, sharp and warning, telling me what kind of men he keeps close. Dangerous ones. Useful ones. Ones you don’t look at twice.

But here I am, looking anyway.

Up close, he doesn’t look like the men my father surrounds himself with. There’s something quieter about him, something coiled — like he could explode but chooses not to. His gaze doesn’t move away from mine, and for a second I wonder if he can see right through me.

I clear my throat, trying to sound steady. “You talk like someone who likes breaking things.”

He studies me for a heartbeat, then answers, “Only the things that need to be broken.”

There’s no smirk this time, no playfulness. Just truth — heavy and dangerous and strangely beautiful.

My chest tightens before I can stop it. I look away first, back at the stars. The fake laughter from inside drifts through the open doors, too bright, too loud. I let out a slow breath.

“Then maybe,” I say quietly, “you’re in the right place.”

He gives a small sound— not quite a laugh, more like he’s tasting the idea. “Maybe,” he murmurs. 

“Isabella.”

The voice cuts through the noise — cold, controlled, unmistakable. My father.

I freeze.

Landon’s eyes flick toward the sound before returning to mine. The calm is still there, but beneath it I can see something else — recognition, calculation.

“You should go,” he says, low enough that only I can hear.

For a heartbeat, I don’t move. I don’t want to.

Then I turn. My father’s standing in the doorway, that same practiced smile on his face, the kind that never reaches his eyes. The guests part for him like he’s gravity.

“Inside,” he says. It isn’t a request.

When I glance back, the spot beside me is empty. Only the faint smell of smoke and rain lingers where he stood.