Novelas y relatos de Isabella Lovestory Age

“Why?” Nicholas sighed, rubbing his temples “Celeste, you know Isabella has been sick for years.” “Yes, I know,” I said, my voice shaking. “But what does that have to do with us?” He looked at me — calm, cold, like this was just business. “She doesn’t have long to live. Maybe a year at most. Her last wish is to get married… and I want to grant it.” My breath caught. “You want to marry her? While I’m still your wife?”

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.

And now, Liam stood on that screen, holding his own son, promising to protect his family. "You promised too, Henry," Isabella said to the screen. Her voice was raspy. "You promised me the world." She looked at her reflection in the darkened glass of the window. It overlaid the image of Liam, creating a double exposure. Her eyes, lined with age and bitterness, stared back from his face. She wasn't twenty-two anymore. She wasn't the wild girl who waited in Paris. She was Isabella Voss. She owned shipping lines. She owned media conglomerates. She owned senators.

SERA Isabella was a goddess. Everybody wanted to be like her, including me. I wanted to be loved like her, to be seen by my father like her but obviously, I was asking for too much, a whole lot if we were being honest. Isabella is my stepsister, and it's her twenty-fifth birthday. She had pulled in half of Manhattan's elite — jewels, perfume, laughter that cost money. I had ironed my best dress for the evening, a plain navy thing that had been washed so many times the colour had started apologizing for itself.

I crouched down, brushing my fingers over the worn letters. 'Taobella Moretti Beloved Mother Gone Too Soon' I swallowed the lump in my throat. “She died when I was ten,” I said quietly. “Sick. My father didn’t believe in hospitals. Said it was weakness.” Isabella inhaled sharply. I didn’t look at her.

Her prior conviction that holy water has the ability to save lives reappears now that she must protect her children. Isabel made her way back through the hall, barefoot. Her outfit was all white, and her hair was pulled back into a bun. Back then, when she was 19 years old, and the memory of walking over to Ferdinand was still fresh in her mind. Ferdinand started when she raised her eyes to him.

"Why do you ask?" "Uhm... Until I figure it out, just answer my questions. How old is she?" "She is twenty; don't tell me she is too long for me." "Isabella would have been 20 years old today." Lily stares into space and bites her lips. "Why would I judge you?" Lily laughs. "You know my history." She wraps her arms around Luca's waist, and it looks like he is melting already. Lily parts her lips as if to ask another question, then stops.

If he had never insisted that Hazel followed him with Ruby then they would never not be caught in the storm that had stolen her away from them. Isabella turned her head to look her way. “When is that? I mean, my birthday—cause I have a feeling—umm—the one I celebrate isn't it.” That felt sad to say. Hazel nodded. “November 10.” Hazel injercted. Isabella nodded. “That’s next month.” Her eyes trailed back to the photo album. “The previous one was in July. My Dad chose—” She cleared her throat. “I mean my former Dad. He died.”

TWELVE YEARS AGO. Isabella was sixteen and like unlike most sixteen year olds these days, all she cared about was herself and the boy in front of her—the boy she loved with all her heart, in a city that was home to her. She had plans, a million of them interwoven with these things,

She looked back at Romeo. "Good.” Romeo smiled warmly. "I just need to ask you a few standard questions to check your brain function. It’s protocol. Can you tell me your full name?" "Isabella." She breathed out. "Isabella Santiago." Not Galante. Santioago. Mateo’s surname. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper. "Thank you, Isabella." Romeo nodded. "Can you tell me how old you are?" "Twenty-one." My chest caved in. She was twenty- nine. She had just lost eight entire years of her life. It was the time she married Mateo. The time before Elena.