Chapter 21
Isabel
I hear the doorbell ring, and my eyes flutter open.
The soft blanket tangled around my legs tells me I’ve fallen asleep on the sofa again.
A second chime jolts me to my feet, heart skipping—there’s always that moment of disorientation, of forgetting where I am.
The silence of the house makes the sound louder, more intrusive.
I brush a hand through my hair, trying to shake the sleep off, and pad barefoot toward the door.
When I open it, I see Alice.
My breath catches for a split second. She's standing there like a vision of familiarity I didn’t know I needed. Beside her, two tall men in black uniforms flank her like shadows.
“Could you tell these two I’m not a thief?” she scoffs, arms crossed, her tone as fierce as ever as she shoots them a deadly glare.
My laughter bursts out, more from relief than amusement. “A thief? No, she’s Alice. A friend of mine,” I say, stepping aside to let her in. My eyes narrow slightly as I look at the two men. They don’t have the bored, vaguely nosy look of neighbors. Too poised. Too alert. “And you are?”
“I’m the Weister maid,” Alice snaps proudly before they can answer. “Better show some respect, or I won’t feed you.”
I smile at her sass. God, I missed this. Having her here—it’s like anchoring myself to a piece of home. My only friend in this damn house, in this city that feels like a suit I was forced to wear. Too stiff. Too tight.
“Apologies, ma’am,” the taller of the two men says with a nod. “Captain Weister has assigned us to keep you and the house secure. I’m Morris and he’s Kennet.”
Of course he did.
I sigh softly, brushing a curl behind my ear. “Did Nathan mention that the annex in the back is equipped for security? It’s wired with surveillance monitors. You can set up there—no need to camp on the porch.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the other one—Kennet—nods. “The captain briefed us. We’ve been instructed that if you ever leave the property, one of us will accompany you.”
Great. A shadow for every step. Classic Nathan.
“I’m Isabel,” I reply, trying to keep my tone neutral. “I’ll share access to my planner today so you’re in the loop.”
They nod, stiff and professional, and finally turn to leave. I close the door behind them with a sigh that’s heavier than it should be.
When I turn around, Alice is still standing there, arms open.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” I whisper as I fall into her hug.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes soft. “Oh, Isabel. You cried.”
I blink rapidly. The tears are still there, just behind my lashes. “A little bit,” I admit, voice cracking. “I already miss him.”
She hugs me tighter. And I let go.
The tears roll freely this time, no longer embarrassed, just… tired. “I hate how quiet it gets,” I murmur. “He’s not even been gone that long and the house already feels too big, too hollow.”
“I know,” she soothes, rubbing my back. “But time will pass quicker than you think.”
“I hope so,” I whisper, glancing over her shoulder at the clock on the wall.
Shit.
I pull away, wiping my face with the sleeve of my sweater. “I need to get ready. I have a meeting in an hour.”
“I heard something about you starting a political career,” Alice teases as I walk her to her apartment on the other side of the house.
I freeze mid-step. “No,” I say firmly, turning to look at her. “Politics isn’t my thing. I’ll be working with a nonprofit that needs legal help. And eventually, I’ll open my own firm.”
“That’s an excellent decision,” she says, her smile approving. “Does he know?”
“Dad?” I shrug, feigning indifference, even though a quiet storm swirls beneath my ribs. “No. But he’s already played enough with my life. This is my restart. My rules.”
Because it has to be. I’ve spent too many years away, always returning to a version of myself sculpted by other people’s expectations. But not anymore. This—this is mine. And I won’t let anyone steer me off-course again.
Back in the main house, I open my planner and send the guards my full schedule. Then, on impulse, I send it to Alice, too. If I’m late getting home, she won’t have to worry. She deserves that peace of mind.
After a quick shower, I dress in a high-waisted skirt, a soft cream blouse, and nude heels that click against the hardwood as I walk downstairs. The kitchen smells faintly of the coffee I brewed earlier but never drank.
I pour myself a fresh cup and lean against the counter, staring out the window for a long moment before pulling out my phone. My fingers hesitate over the keyboard, then type the only words that feel right.
Subject: Miss You Already
Dear husband,
You could’ve told me we’d have a security detail in place.
You know I don’t need them—but thank you anyway.
Alice moved in with us, but I think you already know that.
Take care.
I love you.
Isabel
I hit Send and let the phone fall to the table with a soft thud.
The house is quiet again. But not quite as lonely.
Not anymore.
* * *
I keep my mind busy throughout the week, diving headfirst into every little detail I can get my hands on.
It’s the only way to stop myself from checking my phone every ten minutes, hoping Nate texted.
We’ve had so little time together, but somehow, those moments have carved themselves into my bones.
I'm still not used to saying ‘husband’ out loud. It feels foreign, but warm—like the kind of warmth you crave when it’s cold and everything else feels uncertain.
“Mrs. Weister?” Mr. Landlon's voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts, pulling me back to reality.
“Hmm?” I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at a plain white wall for far too long. “Would it be possible to knock this wall down? Open it up a bit?” I ask, gesturing toward the dull, separating wall. “I want it to feel less like a legal fortress and more like a place where someone can breathe.”
Mr. Landlon glances at the folder in his hand, then at the wall, tapping his pen against his lip. “Structurally? Should be fine. We’d need approval from the building inspector, of course, but there’s nothing load-bearing here. Seems doable.”
I walk across the space, mentally rearranging furniture, clients, files. I can already picture the transformation. Clean lines. Light wood. A reception desk bathed in sunlight. “Perfect.”
“The location is incredible,” he says, following behind me—closer than before. “And private parking? That’s a diamond in London.” His voice drops a tone. “Just like you, Mrs. Weister.”
I freeze for a second, then slowly turn around.
“Excuse you?” I ask, my voice sharp, but polite.
He chuckles like we’re sharing some private joke. “I mean—you strike me as someone who’s got it all together. Beauty, brains, power. Most women in your position don’t have your kind of presence.”
I stiffen, adjusting my bag on my shoulder and putting some distance between us. But he closes the gap again, undeterred.
“You know,” he continues, lowering his voice further, “I could always show you other properties… in a more personal setting. Maybe over a drink? Purely professional, of course.” His eyes slide over me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I take another deliberate step back, pretending to glance around the room again.
“I’m not interested in renting. Go ahead and prepare the contract for purchase.”
His eyes light up with a touch too much enthusiasm. “Well, that was fast. I like a woman who knows what she wants.”
“I’m not in the market for anything else,” I say coolly, locking eyes with him. “This office will do just fine. Prepare the contract.”
“Straight to the point,” he mutters, then smiles. “I like that. Though I have to say, if I were your husband, I’d be worried about letting a woman like you out alone. You could cause all sorts of trouble.”
My lips press into a thin line. The chill in my spine becomes ice. I feel a presence before I even see it.
Morris.
He steps inside, slow and silent, but with that imposing calm only trained men have. He doesn’t say anything, but his presence alone slices through the tension like a knife. I see Landlon’s eyes flick to him, and just like that, the swagger deflates a little.
“Well then,” I say, turning back to Mr. Landlon with the sweetest smile I can muster, laced with steel. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be waiting on that contract.”
“I—of course,” he says, adjusting his collar and clearing his throat. “I’ll be in touch, Mrs. Weister.”
I don’t say another word. I walk away, heels echoing on the floor like punctuation marks, and step into the safety of the corridor with Morris right behind me.
“Everything alright, ma’am?” he asks, his voice low and even.
I nod, chin high. “Yes. Just one more man who thinks the rings on my fingers are decorative.”
Morris doesn’t reply, but I catch the subtle shift in his jaw, the tension there. I appreciate it more than I let on. Morris stops and turns back.
I rush my steps to stop him. “He doesn’t deserve more of our time,” I cling to his arm. “We have something important to do.”
I can feel how tense he is. But he nods, and I let him go only when we’re outside the building.
“We have another stop,” I tell Morris, handing him the business card for the WAVC. The Women’s Anti-Violence Centre. He gives it to Kennet who nods and takes the driver’s seat.
It’s more than just a job. It’s something that matters.
When we arrive, I spot the swarm of reporters hovering outside. Of course. They’re always hungry for something—especially with the Weister name attached. I lower my sunglasses, heart racing, but Morris handles them with practiced precision, shielding me all the way in.
“Mrs. Weister, welcome,” Helen Fairlane greets me with a warm, genuine smile.
Inside, the air is quieter, heavier, full of stories that haven’t been told. We walk through the hallway lined with framed pictures and soft-colored murals, toward her office.
We talk about the centre’s mission. Their struggles. The women who come in with nothing but bruises and broken pieces. Then I pitch it—the fundraiser. An event that could bring in donations, awareness, change.
She blinks in surprise when I mention Grace may help us to organize it. “Duchess Grace Weister?” she gasps, clutching her chest. “My God, I think I might faint.”
The meeting stretches longer than I planned, but every second feels meaningful. I leave with a sense of purpose I hadn’t expected to find today.
In the car, I dial Grace.
“Izzy!” she answers, surprised. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine. But I need a favor…”
Her vacation excuse makes me roll my eyes, but it doesn’t matter. She’s in. And with her on board, this fundraiser is going to be more than an event—it’s going to shake the city.
Back home, my phone buzzes. A text from Dad. I swipe it away without reading it and open a new email instead.
To: Nate
Subject: Home and Heart
Hi Nate,
I found the perfect office and I’m sure you’ll love it. I’ll send you photos once I have the keys in hand.
Also… surprise—I recruited your mother for a WAVC charity event. Hope you don’t mind but I think she owes me some favors.
Heading home now. It’s been a long day. Can’t wait to curl up in your t-shirt and pretend you’re holding me.
Missing you more than I care to admit.
Love you always,
Izzy