Chapter 11 #3
I open my mouth to tell her to get lost, but I stop when I catch the hurt in her eyes and remember this is Isabel. She just lost her father and still found the room to feel sorry for me.
“I need to go to my wife.”
“I—yes.” She nods quickly. “I asked, and the chauffeur took her home a few minutes ago.”
Relief hits hard, brief and blinding, before it is replaced by the image of Yara alone, crying, thinking I—
Christ.
“I have to go.”
I pull my keys from my pocket with hands that are still not steady. By the time I reach the driver’s side door, Isabel moves in front of it.
“Xavi, wait. You can’t drive.” Her eyes search my face, then she steps closer, catching the scent on my breath. “You’ve been drinking.”
“I had a glass of wine—” I cut myself off, remembering the three glasses of scotch I had before dinner even started.
I curse under my breath.
“Let me take you home. My car is right there.” She nods toward a sleek Mercedes idling near the fountain, her chauffeur watching us with quiet uncertainty. “I’ll have my driver follow us. I can drive your car and get you out of here safely. Please, Xavi. At least until you calm down.”
I am not drunk enough to be a danger. Still, the thought of taking those winding cliffside roads with my head like this makes me hesitate. If something happened to me now, it would only hurt Yara more.
“Come on. We’ll get you home, and I promise I won’t bother you after that. I just… I don’t feel right letting you go like this.”
I clench my jaw. Every instinct rebels at the idea of Isabel of all people driving me anywhere. Yara would lose her mind if she knew. But Yara is not here. And much as I hate it, Isabel has a point. I am not exactly in my right mind.
“Fine. But not all the way home. Drop me a few blocks away.”
I cannot risk Yara seeing me pull up with Isabel.
“Of course. Whatever you want.”
Before I can change my mind, Isabel slips the keys from my hand and circles to the driver’s side of my Audi.
She has kicked off her heels and is barefoot now, and for one split second I remember the countless times we slipped out of formal events like this with our shoes in our hands, laughing as we ran off to be alone.
Another life.
I shove the memory down and move to the passenger side. The smell of my wife’s perfume hits me the moment I open the door, tangled with the lingering scent of us from earlier. It nearly chokes me. My throat closes.
I can’t do this.
I need to see Yara. Now.
We drive in silence. I lean my head back against the seat and shut my eyes, willing the nausea and rage inside me to settle. The vents hum, blowing cool air, but I am still overheated, suffocating in my own skin.
The window is cracked. Sea air drifts in. It does nothing to soothe me.
“Xavi,” Isabel says after a while. “I’m… I’m so sorry. For all of it.”
I open my eyes and turn toward her. Her hands are steady on the wheel, but her face is taut with worry. “You have nothing to apologize for. This was between me and them.”
She bites her lip. “Still. I feel responsible. If I hadn’t shown up tonight—”
“Don’t,” I interrupt. “It’s not your fault my mother is a nightmare.” A bitter smile twists at my mouth. “She would have found another way to hurt Yara. If anything, I should be apologizing to you for being used as a pawn in her game.”
“I just wish I could have stopped her. The things she said… about Yara…” She shakes her head, disgust sharpening her voice. “Unforgivable.”
It is. And I stood there and let it go on too long.
“Yara didn’t deserve any of that.”
“No. She didn’t.” Isabel glances at me, her expression softening. “Neither did you.”
I let out a humorless snort. “I’m not worried about me.”
She looks over again, her gaze settling on my wedding ring. “Maybe you should be.” There is an edge to her voice now. “Xavier… the way they treat you, it isn’t right. It never was. I thought after all these years your parents might have learned to appreciate you. Clearly, I was wrong.”
I say nothing. I do not have the energy to pick apart a lifetime of damage with Isabel in the driver’s seat and Yara waiting somewhere without me.
I close my eyes and, for one stupid second, wish time could reverse—that when I open them again, none of this will have happened.
I do not know how long I am out .
When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is a pair of brown eyes I know too well.
Isabel.
She is leaning across the console, her fingers at my tie.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I jerk back so hard my shoulder hits the door.
She startles and scrambles into her own seat, wiping her palms against her dress. “I just—I wanted you to rest a little before facing everything.” The words tumble out of her. “And your tie looked uncomfortable. I was only trying to loosen it.”
I look around and realize the car is no longer moving. We are parked at the side of the road.
“How long was I out?”
She hesitates.
“How long, Isabel?”
“A little over four hours.”
“Mierda.” The word comes out raw. Midnight has to be close. Yara.
I drag a hand over my face and stare through the windshield. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to be there for you. The way you’ve been there for me since Papá died.”
I swallow hard and stare out at the dark road ahead. We are close to the city now. A few more turns and we will be near my neighborhood.
Beside me, Isabel draws in a breath, like she is bracing herself.
“Xavi… don’t be mad.” Her voice drops. “I just wanted to thank you. For everything you did for me.”
My brows knit as I turn to look at her properly. “There’s nothing to thank me for. Eduardo was… He was a good man. He deserved to be honored.”
“I mean it. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you last week. When I called, I was a mess, and you dropped everything to be there for me. And then yesterday, after all these years, you did it again. I’ll never forget that.”
My throat tightens at the memory. The phone call. Her broken voice. He’s gone .
I flew to Madrid that same day. By the time I landed, evening had turned to night. Dozens of messages lit up my phone, but I ignored every one that was not from my assistant coordinating a car. I went straight from the airport to the funeral home.
And there she was. Isabel, in black, eyes red and hollow. A few feet away, Eduardo Ortega lay in a coffin. My heart sank.
It was midnight by the time I made it back to Nice. I told Yara it was work. Work has been my excuse for everything lately.
I blink hard, forcing myself back to the present. “He was like a father to me. More than my own ever was.”
She wipes at the corner of her eye. “He loved you, you know. Always did. I think… I think you were the son he never had.”
A lump rises in my throat, and I look away, fixing on anything else instead of the grief on her face.
Eduardo had been my mentor, my refuge. The man who taught me how to sail.
Who showed up to my university graduation when my own parents could not be bothered.
Who gave me somewhere to breathe after I left my family and before I was ready to face the world again.
“I only did what needed doing,” I say, too gruff to hide what is trying to break loose.
I handled the funeral. Gave the eulogy. Helped lay Eduardo to rest. I did all of it on autopilot, driven by duty and love for the man who had saved me more times than he ever knew.
And I did it without telling Yara the truth.
Yesterday, after the appointment that knocked the ground out from under me, I meant to go home to my wife. I even bought gifts. But the guilt stopped me. It has been for weeks.
That was where I saw Isabel again for the second time since Madrid. She had just arrived, though when I asked about her plans, she never said she was coming. If I had not found her when I did, she might have done something irreversible.
When I got home, Yara was still sitting in the dining room in the dress she had chosen for the surprise dinner, surrounded by cold food, dead candles, and flowers already starting to wilt. She looked sick with worry, and still she tried to smile when she saw me.
I tried calling.
I was about to call hospitals.
I lied to her. Automatically. And she stood there listening with hurt in her eyes and grace I had not earned.
The guilt surges back hard enough to hollow me out. I left my wife in the dark to comfort another woman. I lied to her. Hurt her because of it. Whatever my intentions were, Yara has every right to hate me for the way I handled it.
I still don’t know how my mother learned Isabel Ortega would be in Nice for a few months after her father’s funeral, or how she arranged to invite her to our annual family dinner without saying a word to me. But now, at least, I know this much.
It was never an accident.
“…Xavier?”
My head jerks up. The conference room is nearly empty, with only Adrian lingering by the door, a stack of papers tucked under his arm. The rest of the team have already filed out, either to carry out my orders or to escape the tension I radiated through the entire meeting. I had not even noticed.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to ground myself. “Yeah?”
Adrian’s expression is lined with concern.
He has known me for years and seen me under pressure more times than I can count, but probably never like this.
“We’re set for now. I’ll have updates for you first thing in the morning.
” He pauses, then adds carefully, “Do you need anything before I go? You should probably get that looked at.” He gestures vaguely toward my face.
Right. The bruise.
A glance at the darkened glass wall gives me the faint reflection of a man with a swollen cheekbone. I look about as good as I feel.
“I’m fine,” I say shortly. “Thanks, Adrian. Go home. Get some rest.”
He nods, hesitates like he wants to say more, then thinks better of it. “Good night.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
I blow out a breath and rise from my chair. The office around me is growing quiet as the workday dies. Normally I would be one of the last people out, but today I do not have it in me to keep pretending I am getting anything done.
I need to see my wife.
I need to try to explain… if she will even let me.
On my way back to my office, I pull out my phone. No new messages from Yara. I sent her a few texts throughout the day, none of them answered. The read receipts tell me she has seen them, at least. Small mercies.
I stare at the screen, resisting the urge to call her. Give her space, I remind myself for the hundredth time. She has every right to be furious with me. Every right to want distance.
By the time I reach my office and push through the heavy glass door, evening light is spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in gold and shadow. I shrug off my suit jacket and toss it over a chair, then loosen my tie the rest of the way. My head is pounding again.
As I move around my desk to shut down my computer, a knock sounds behind me.
“Come in.”
Claire, my personal assistant, steps into the doorway.
“Mr. Navarro, I’m sorry to interrupt. Lobby security has a Ms. Ortega downstairs requesting to see you. She does not have an appointment. She asked that I inform you it concerns your mother.”
My brow furrows. What has she done now?
I stare at Claire for a beat too long, then say, “Send her up.”
Claire inclines her head and withdraws.
Less than a minute later, there’s another knock. The door opens.
She steps into the doorway, framed by the hallway lights. A tailored ivory dress beneath a camel coat draped loosely over her shoulders. Blond hair swept into a low chignon. Her gaze meets mine, and she flashes me a smile far too bright for the hour.
“Hi, Xavi.”