Novel & Cerita Isabel Magnolia

She smiled and played with Minnie's small hand. "Mrs. has no name," one of the security personnel answered Nathaniel Dave and that even made him feel very weird about the woman, how can someone not have a name? he was now very curious to know this woman without a name, it's strange for Ted to run over and call her Isabel. Isabel is dead and ....it would be impossible for Isabel to ever attain this level of wealth. Never! there is no miracle that will happen on earth that can ever make Isabel become so honourable in just nine months, plus she's even dead. He buried her dead body himself.

Days of seeing her at meals, passing her in hallways, watching her smile at Nicholas the way she used to smile at me. Days of torture. Days of wanting something I couldn't have. The bedroom door suddenly opened behind me, and I didn't need to turn around to know it was Isabella. I could smell her perfume—expensive, extravagant, nothing like the subtle floral scent Vanessa used to wear. "Sebastian?" Her voice was soft, tentative. I set down my glass and turned to face her. Isabella stood in the doorway wearing a silk robe that was barely tied, revealing enough skin to make her intentions obvious. Her blonde hair fell over her shoulders, and she'd clearly just refreshed her makeup.

I paused on the threshold, heart in my throat. No chaos. No accusations. No screaming. Just the long mahogany table set for six. Candles flickering. Crystal wineglasses catching firelight. My mother at the head, laughing softly, her hand resting on Isabella’s forearm as she gestured animatedly at something on her phone—wedding flowers, from the look of the screen. Pale pink peonies, white roses, eucalyptus. Isabella was nodding, smiling that perfect, practiced smile, but her eyes were glassy, distant.

The air inside the greenhouse was suffocatingly warm, thick with the scent of wet earth, decaying moss, and a strange, sweet, cloying aroma that made the back of his throat tingle. Isabella stood at a wrought-iron potting bench in the center of the humid space. She had discarded her heavy trench coat, wearing only a simple charcoal-grey wool dress. Her dark hair was loosely pinned back, a few stray curls clinging to the damp skin of her neck. She wasn't wearing her diamond leash today. In front of her sat an ancient, terracotta pot containing a lush, dark green plant with dull purple, bell-shaped flowers and glossy black berries that looked like polished obsidian.

Isabella paced back and forth in the living room of the Cáceres mansion, frowning and her face flushed with rage. Across from her sat Nelly, Simon’s mother, sitting on the sofa with her arms crossed, listening to her rant against Natalia. “She’s shameless,” Isabella said, waving her hands in the air. “She comes back after all these years as if she’s untouchable, with that new name and her ‘airs of grandeur.’”

The guard made a call and minutes later, the gates opened. The driveway was long, lined with palms and fountains. Whoever this Damien guy is, must be rich. Too bad, I’m richer. The car rolled to a stop in front of the mansion and I looked up immediately. My heart slammed to a dead stop the moment my gaze fell on her. Isabella stood on the front steps in a white shirt that stopped barely below her knee, glowing, smiling like she was exactly where she wanted to be. And it twisted something painfully dark inside me.

"Report back to me by tonight." Across the city, in her Brewery office, Calla stood with Neva and a stunning woman named Isabella. The morning sun streamed through the large windows. Neva had searched for long to find the perfect face for the club, and Isabella was her final choice. "Isabella," Calla began, looking the woman straight in the eyes. "Do you fully understand the job I'm giving you?" Isabella smiled warmly, her confidence clear. "I am the public face of the club. I will greet important guests, give speeches, smile for cameras, and make everyone feel welcome. I will represent Sombra de Agave with grace and charm."

Saved it. Perception was everything. Especially for someone as emotionally fragile as Isabella right now. She needed to believe we were a family. She needed to feel safe. Secure. Loved. She needed to forget how many lies I’d told. Forget how much control I truly had. I returned to my phone, picked it up, and dialed the front desk. “Yes, sir?” the butler answered. “Make sure Isabella’s room is warm when she returns. And place the roses on her nightstand..the white ones, not red.”

Before I could respond, I noticed movement behind Mom. And then I saw her. Isabel. Her hands were clasped together in front of her, fingers intertwined tightly. Her eyes were lowered toward the ground. Her posture… smaller. The first thing that struck me was her outfit. I had never seen Isabel dressed like this before. It wasn’t ugly. Not at all. But it wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t attention-grabbing. It wasn’t dramatic or screaming for validation. It was plain. Modest. Soft. And strangely enough, it suited her.

Isabella had once told me that I looked exceptionally sweet and gentle in this color. I had even brought her favorite mango mousse cake. It was still sitting in the front passenger seat, along with a bouquet of white roses. I'd even had a whole speech ready in my head so that she'd forgive me and perhaps even smile back at me. But now, I was told that Isabella was dead. "It's impossible…" I growled, gritting my teeth as the metallic taste of blood spread in my mouth. "This is impossible!" It had to be some twisted game Isabella was playing on me! She had done all this to trick me so that she could run away!