Chapter 22
Isabel
It’s been another week since Nate left, and I still haven’t heard from him.
Not a call. Not a text. Not even a forwarded meme.
I stare down at my phone for what must be the hundredth time today, willing it to light up with his name. My inbox is empty. My messages are unread. The silence is louder than I expected it to be—and more unbearable.
Checking every few minutes doesn’t help, but I can’t seem to stop. It’s like a compulsion, a ritual of hope I cling to even though it hurts more each time I come up empty. I keep telling myself he’s probably just busy. He’s working. Focused. Saving lives, maybe.
I twist my wedding ring around my finger, slowly, as if the motion could settle the tornado inside my chest. But lately, even that’s lost its soothing power.
Fidgeting only makes me more aware of how anxious I’ve become.
My fingers tremble slightly, and I clench them into fists, digging my nails into my palms to feel something real—something grounded.
I want to scream. Loud. Long. The kind of scream that tears through the lungs and leaves your throat raw. I want to slam something. Maybe even throw my phone out the window and watch it shatter.
Instead, I force a breath in. Then another. I focus on the road ahead.
I’m on my way to approve the design for my new business cards—another step forward in this new life I’m building. One with my name on the door and not my father’s. My name. My rules.
Except even that victory feels hollow today. Because how do you celebrate when the one person you want to share it with is a ghost?
After the print shop, I have to meet Dad. Apparently, he wants to talk. Which is never good. That phrase always feels like code for: Let me remind you that you’re disappointing me again.
I already know what he’ll say. He wasn’t thrilled when he found out I was setting up my own firm. Not under his umbrella. Not under his name. It’s like I spat on his legacy or something. But I’m not his little puppet anymore. I won’t dance to the tune he whistles.
Still… there’s a tight coil in my stomach at the thought of seeing him.
A part of me still hates the way he can make me feel like I’m five again, fumbling with words, desperate for his approval.
I hate that I still care. That I want him to see me and not just some pretty daughter he can parade around in his carefully curated world.
I pull into the parking space near the print shop and shut off the engine, resting my forehead briefly against the steering wheel. Morris is right next to me. I should be used to having a driver but today I wanted to drive Nathan’s car.
Get it together, Isabel.
I square my shoulders, straighten my blazer, and slip my phone into my bag without checking it again.
One thing at a time.
Even if I feel like I’m breaking into pieces… I’m still moving.
The bell above the door of the print shop jingles as I step out, my fingers curled around a small box of newly printed business cards. Isabel Weister—gold on matte black. Clean. Sophisticated. Mine.
For the first time in years, something with my name on it feels like me.
Getting back in the car with my precious box, I drive toward Dad’s office. Once I get there, I realize the building he chose is cold and far too grand. Typical. Dad never does personal. Just polished surfaces and performative concern.
Julian is laughing with a group of men when I walk in. The moment he sees me; he excuses himself and strides over.
“Isabel…”
“Julian.” I greet him with a curt nod and head straight toward the elevators.
Of course, he follows. His footsteps echo mine until a throat clears behind us.
Morris.
We both turn. Morris stands with arms crossed, flanked by X, both of them looking far from amused.
“Do you need help, ma’am?” Morris asks, voice calm but firm. “I need you to take two steps back from Mrs. Weister,” he tells Julian flatly, pressing the elevator call button. “Kennet, wait here.”
Julian opens his mouth to respond, but the elevator doors slide open. I step in first, Morris right behind me.
“You can relax, Morris,” I say with a small smile. “He’s just my dad’s bodyguard.”
“I’m doing my job, ma’am.”
“Okay, but could you maybe not sound like a robot? You can call me Isabel. You’re going to be working with us for a while, after all.”
He glances at me, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I value my life,” he replies with a dry chuckle. “But I’ll try to be a little less formal if that makes you feel more comfortable.”
“Somehow that’s both reassuring and unsettling. Did Nate give you very specific instructions or something?” I raise an eyebrow, already guessing the answer.
“Captain Weister said if anything happens to you, we may as well start digging our own graves.” His tone is light, but there’s truth behind the words. “And as I mentioned—I really value my life.”
I can’t help but laugh. “He was kidding, Morris.”
Morris doesn’t respond, but his smirk says otherwise.
The elevator dings. We’ve reached my father’s floor. As the doors open, I step out, feeling the weight of my husband’s overprotectiveness in every shadow—and oddly enough, not minding it.
The conference room looks more like a war room than a place for conversation. Morris waits by the door while I step in, the scent of espresso and ambition thick in the air.
Dad sits at the head of the table, surrounded by a few of his political allies—men twice my age who pretend to smile when they see me.
He gestures to the seat beside him, but there’s no warmth in it.
Just command. Time seems to stay still until he finally focuses on me.
“I’ve heard about your… little venture.”
Little venture. Of course.
“I’m starting my own firm. It’s not a venture—it’s a career,” I say, keeping my voice measured. “One I built. Not one handed to me.”
He leans back, steepling his fingers. “You had a seat waiting for you here. A clear future. All of it—yours.”
“Yours,” I correct. “It was your path. Not mine.”
A flicker of irritation crosses his face, quickly masked by a diplomatic smile. “You’re emotional.”
“No,” I say, holding his gaze. “I’m honest. That’s something politics doesn’t teach.”
He chuckles along with his colleagues, low and condescending.
“This idealistic streak of yours was charming in college, Isabel. But you’re not a student anymore. It’s time to step into the real world.” John Meyer, Dad’s best friend and federal judge says.
“This is my real world. Legal consulting for women who’ve survived abuse, representing those without a voice—that’s real.”
Dad exhales sharply through his nose. “You’re wasting your talent. With your name and my network, you could’ve been on a council seat within two years. You still can be.”
And there it is.
“I don’t want to be a politician.”
“You want to play the savior instead?” he scoffs, his voice hardening. “Your mother did the same thing, you know. Always busy with her causes while I cleaned up the messes she left behind.”
My stomach flips. “Don’t talk about Mom like that.”
He pauses, studying me. “You’re so much like her. Stubborn. Idealistic. Impulsive.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t.”
The silence between us stretches, thick with everything we’ve never said.
Then he leans forward, lowering his voice. “Do you even know what you’re getting into, Isabel? You think working with victims is noble—do you know what kind of attention that brings? What kind of people will you be surrounded by?”
“I do,” I say coolly. “Which is why I’ve hired private security. In fact, I was at WAVC last week. And I’m organizing a fundraiser—with Grace.”
That catches him off guard. His brow twitches. “Grace? You’re involving her?”
“She’s the perfect fit. People respect her, and she’s always supported women’s causes.” I smile sweetly. “And she said yes.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re serious about this.”
“Dead serious,” I say. “I’m not backing down.”
A long pause. Then, in a quiet voice, he says, “You could’ve been so much more.”
I stand, not sure why I’m here. “I am more. Just not in your image.”
He’s fuming and I can see it. When he’s about to reply my phone buzzes. Loud. Sharp. Inescapable.
The room falls quiet.
My father’s inquisitive glare cuts through me like a laser. “Isabel,” he says, low and pointed, a warning hidden in that single word.
I glance at the screen. A foreign number. My heart stutters—then slows.
I stand, offering an apologetic but clearly disinterested smile. “Excuse me,” I murmur, already walking out.
Morris opens the door for me, and as it clicks shut behind me, I press the phone to my ear. “Isabel Weister.”
“Hey, sweetheart.”
The sound of Nate’s voice punches the air from my lungs.
My back collides the hallway wall as my knees nearly give. “Nate.” His name tumbles out in a breath. “Hey. How are you?”
“Tired, baby. But fine.”
And just like that, the walls I’ve been building all week start to crack.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the guards,” he adds, his voice dipped in remorse. “I knew you’d say no.”
“You were right,” I whisper, a small smile tugging at my lips. “But it’s okay. I get it.”
I glance down at my Louboutins, focusing on the red soles instead of the burn behind my eyes. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too. But at least I have your shirt. Warms me at night.”
There’s a smile in his voice, and it melts something inside me. “I knew you took it.”
“You left it hanging on the bathroom door,” he teases softly. “It was an invitation. I love you, Izzy,” he adds, voice dropping to a husky promise.
God. That voice. I close my eyes, holding onto the sound like a lifeline. “I love you too, Nate.”
“I have to go,” he says, regret heavy in every syllable. “But I’ll see you soon.”
“Take care of yourself,” I whisper. “And come back to me.”
I blow him a kiss before ending the call, then press the phone to my chest, grounding myself in the echo of his presence.
But the silence doesn’t last long.
The door swings open, and Dad steps out, his expression thunderous. He walks toward me, voice low but seething. “Next time, turn off your phone.”
I push off the wall, spine straight. “Never.”
“Isabel!” he snaps, his voice rising with authority and irritation. “We were in the middle of an important meeting.”
I don’t flinch. I’ve spent too many years doing that. Instead, I plant my feet, lift my chin, and meet his glare head-on.
“No, Dad,” I say, my voice sharp and unwavering. “You were in the middle of an important meeting called ‘Let’s publicly dismantle my daughter’s ambitions.’”
A few murmurs ripple behind him, but I don’t care.
“I was never part of the conversation—just a prop in your political fantasy. A useful pawn with the right credentials and the right last name.” I take a step closer, the heat building in my chest. “And don’t pretend this couldn’t have been discussed in private.
You didn’t want a conversation—you wanted a performance.
You wanted to humiliate me in front of your allies. ”
His jaw tightens, but I don’t stop. Not this time.
“So congratulations. The show was a success.” I level my gaze at him, refusing to blink. “I’ll come and support you if you really need me, but I won’t pursue a political career. I’m a lawyer. I love what I do.”
His nostrils flare. “You’re throwing away every opportunity—”
“My cell phone stays on,” I interrupt sharply. “If Nathan calls, I will answer. Every damn time.”
I turn, ready to leave, but his hand wraps around my arm. “Isabel, wait.”
I stop cold, staring at his fingers like they’ve betrayed me. “Why, Dad?” I ask bitterly. “So you can make another decision for me?”
His grip tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough to warn. “You’ve always been interested in politics. You’re smart. This will take you far.”
I yank my arm free, fury rising like a tide. “Politics was your dinner conversation. Your obsession. We talked about nothing else. Of course I found it interesting—it was the only language spoken in our house! But it was your passion. Mine is justice. Real people. Real problems.”
He says nothing, so I continue, voice quiet but firm. “I already know where my smartness will take me. To my law office and also to helping women who’ve had their voices silenced. That’s where I belong.”
Morris steps closer, his expression unreadable as he silently holds out his hand. I pass him my bag without a word. With practiced efficiency, he presses the elevator call button. The doors slide open with a soft chime.
I step inside without looking back, my spine straight, my pulse steady—or at least pretending to be. The moment the doors close behind me, the noise fades, leaving only the quiet hum of the elevator and the weight of everything I’m carrying that can’t fit in a bag.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t just talk back—I stood my ground.
Dad may have built the stage, written the script, and cast every role I’ve played so far.
But this? This is my rewrite.
And I’m finally the one holding the pen.
When we step out of the elevator, the air in the foyer is already tense. Julian and Kennet are standing near the entrance, talking low and fast. The moment Julian spots me, his gaze lingers a second too long.
I walk past without acknowledging him—until I hear a sharp, low whistle behind me.
I freeze.
Before I can even turn around, Morris’s voice cuts through the hallway like a blade.
“Eyes up,” he growls, low and lethal. “She’s off limits. Even for your fucking eyes. That makes it two.”
Julian chuckles, a smug edge to his tone. “Two what?” he asks, tilting his head, mockery thick in his voice.
Morris steps closer, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body coiled with restrained violence.
“Two warnings. And I don’t give three.”
The air crackles. Even Kennet has the good sense to look away.
Julian’s smile fades just a fraction—but that’s enough.