Novel & Cerita Isabel Canas

“Surely, a quick dance wouldn’t hurt, would it?” The temptation to indulge in a waltz with the undeniably beautiful Isabella was strong. But the image of Annalise, her eyes sparkling with mischief as we practiced our waltz steps earlier that day, flashed in my mind. “Actually,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I’m here with Annalise. We were just… stepping out for some air.” Isabella’s smile faltered for a fleeting moment, a flicker of something akin to surprise crossing her face. But it was quickly replaced by a practiced smile – a dazzling display of perfectly white teeth and unwavering confidence.

"No, just told him it was a business trip for a week and that I might get a promotion out of it." She nodded and sipped at her drink. "I've always loved these." Mark tasted his own and nodded in agreement. "Nice." "The pastry chef on the Island does a Mojito Sorbet. It's incredible." "Sounds it," Mark replied. "So tell me about the Island then. What's it like?"

The way he said ladies made me cringe like we were something other than ladies. “Teresa Montés and Isabella Valéz.” Chino responded. “These wouldn’t be my brother’s daughters, would they? “They are.” “So, you escaped Zamora. “ “Yes,” I said. “You must be Isabella. The older one, right? “He looked me up and down. “Hmmm.” He walked over to Teresa, she looked at me nervously. She is only 19. Barely even legal in the United States. He touched her shoulder, she jumped. “It’s no reason to be afraid.” He rubbed her shoulders.

This was due to her having mixed blood, that of a Filipina and an American. This set her apart from the rest of the girls in this small town of Kabatuan. The smile that was ever present whenever he looked at her was no more. And what replaced it was a casual nod before he went inside to buy from the canteen. ___________________ "Hi." a text came through the cellphone of Juan Pedro. "Hello, Isabella. How are you?" was the friendly reply he sent back. "Are you going to stay here for college?" Isabella texted after five minutes of thinking about a topic, just to have something for them to talk about. She tried to deny it but she misses the company of Juan Pedro.

Candice’s P.O.V. The gallery in Lisbon had transformed into a living canvas that night. Soft lighting spilled across Isabella’s paintings, turning the white walls into windows into her soul. I stood near the entrance with Mantovani’s arm around my waist, watching our niece move through the growing crowd with a quiet confidence that made my chest swell with pride. At twenty-two, Isabella had become a force of color and courage, her dark hair pulled into a loose braid, her black dress simple yet striking. She paused to speak with visitors, her hands gesturing animatedly as she explained the stories behind each piece.

Mateo stood at her other side, his wound healing but his pride frayed at the edges. Cameras clicked like a hailstorm. Reporters surged forward. But Isabella raised one hand, and silence fell. “I am Isabella Herrera Castellano,” she began, her voice smooth and unyielding. “And I speak today not as someone hiding behind men or lineage—but as the rightful heir of both.” She let that settle. “Last night, this estate was attacked. The man responsible is dead. But his ambition lives on—in whispers, in knives hidden beneath courtly smiles. Let this be known: I will not be moved by fear. I will not bow to the threats of those who think a woman cannot rule.”

“Stop testing me, Handsome Boy. You'll see when I officially become your stepmother. I guarantee you will like me more than your biological mother." While Kara gaped behind Isabela's back, Frank laughed dryly. "You're so confident." “Hubby, have you forgotten who your future wife is? I'm Isabela Hall, the dream girl of every man on earth. They call me perfect. I'm beautiful, rich, and talented. There's nothing I can't do.” Kara silently looked down with her mouth twitching. The more she got to know the model, the more she understood why Frank chose herself.

He tried to get on to his feet, wincing in pain as he did so. Isabelle did not appear to be fazed by this new turn of events. Her face twisted into a sneer. “So, Oswald, do you want to show me what you’re made of?” David stepped inside. “What have you done to her?” “Isabelle has become a member of the Brethren!” Belinda was aware of movement behind her and she twisted round to see the bar emptying through the back door with the entrance of David Oswald. Isabelle seemed to notice this too and she laughed. “They might be scared of you, Oswald, but I’m not!”

He had chosen his two offerings carefully. Isabela, 29, a fiery local Carnival dancer with golden-brown skin, long dark curls, and a body built for sin — full, heavy breasts, narrow waist, and a round, juicy ass. And Camila, 24, her younger cousin — petite, smooth-skinned, with perky breasts and a tight, innocent-looking body that hid a very dirty mind.

‎Then finished it. ‎ ‎California wasn’t home. ‎It never would be. ‎But it was useful. ‎Far enough from Greece to create distance. ‎Close enough to control my operations without interference. ‎And the people here, they didn’t ask questions. ‎Not the important ones. ‎To them, I was Isabella Reyes. ‎Businesswoman. ‎Entrepreneur. ‎Owner of a fast-growing luxury fashion brand that had taken the industry by storm. ‎They didn’t know the rest. ‎They didn’t need to.