38. Roman
The first thing I noticed when I walked into the library was that no faint, musky floral scent lingered in the air. Same for the effervescent aura that always trailed in Isabel’s wake. She wasn’t here yet. Perhaps she’d been held up.
I glanced at my phone for the millionth time, last night’s texts to her still unread, my voice messages still unanswered. Something could be wrong with her phone, I told myself. I made a note for Kayla to get Isabel the latest iPhone. It was ridiculous that our communication might be cut off because Isabel’s phone was unreliable.
This morning I was at my regular post, watching her glide from the Navigator. But this time she had no confectionary box in her hands. And to my chagrin, she didn’t offer me a single glance as she walked to the front door.
Also missing was that secret little smile of hers when she knew I was watching her.
Nevertheless, relief washed over me. She was safe, she was here, and everything was going to be fine. But that relief was quickly eroded by a dark wave of unease clawing its way through my chest.
She hadn’t texted back.
My calls went straight to voicemail.
She didn’t look up.
Something was terribly wrong.
Still, I held out hope that once we came face to face, it would all be sorted out. Yes, her phone was on the fritz. And yes, she didn’t look up because she was afraid someone might notice our connection this time.
Those were all simple explanations for why the nymph suddenly felt a world removed from me. In the library, we could put this worry away and I’d have a chance to lay out this great plan I had for an evening of her choosing.
It was last night, after the four-hour meeting with the executives in Hong Kong, when I realized the solution to spending time together with Isabel was an extremely simple one. For as long as she remained too skittish to stay overnight at Belmont Manor, and because security wasn’t keen on me going “out on a date” in the big bad world—what was the penthouse in the Belmont Hotel if not common ground?
We could have dinner on the penthouse terrace, and dance to her favorite songs under the stars. We’d have the entire night to indulge in whatever flights our imaginations might suggest. At a guess, we’d barely scratched the surface of our salacious wants and needs. The nymph was only now discovering the pleasure her body was capable of giving her, and I was the fortunate man at the helm of that pleasure. Most importantly, we’d wake up together—my atonement for the devastation I’d caused her before.
When the door to the library opened, my heart leapt. But it was Nelson carrying a tray with my coffee and an iffy-looking pastry that was definitely not Isabel’s work. “Morning sir,” he said as he put the tray down and prepared my coffee.
“Morning, Nelson.”
“Here we have something a little different,” he said, with a tone that suggested it was not his proudest moment. “Today’s chocolate éclairs were made by one of the staff members, Sophia. So, I would exercise caution before indulging.”
As if I didn’t know that wasn’t Isabel’s handiwork.
Nelson continued patiently. “Sophia wants to follow in Mrs. Sheldon’s footsteps, and Isabel is training her in the kitchen.”
“Does Isabel not have more than enough to do reading to my father?” I asked for no reason whatsoever.
Listen to yourself. Acting like the jilted lover.
“Not to worry sir, she does it all during her breaks. And I believe the teachings will continue at night via the wonderful world of video calls and the internet.”
I was still trying to convince myself that all was well. “As long as my father’s reader is happy and content here… She is, isn’t she Nelson? Her work here is important.”
The intensity in my tone must have caught Nelson off-guard, because his attention was unwittingly seized by a dust particle on the back of a chair. He surreptitiously wiped it with his thumb. Perhaps he thought my unhappiness with the subpar pastry was to blame when he met my gaze with all the patience of Job.
“I believe she has been so far,” he said. “This morning I noticed she was quieter than usual. But I suspect that could be for a number of reasons. Perhaps a romantic venture experiencing a hiccup is one. Not that I could possibly see why anyone would want to cause that wonderful girl the tiniest bit of unhappiness.”
So, he either knew or suspected. And it sounded like he might be holding me accountable for Isabel’s state of mind. Or maybe it was paranoia weaving its wicked threads around my insides.
“If that’s all, sir…”
“No, that’s not all,” I said.
Nelson hid his surprise with a loyal house manager’s smile. “Sir?”
“How long have we known each other, Nelson?”
“I met you when you were barely out of your diapers, sir.”
“Then why do you call me sir?”
“My job demands the utmost respect for the current master and for you as the future master of this house.”
“Well, I think that ends here. Please call me Roman. Let’s not have tradition impose its stiff formalities on the new generation.”
“That would take some getting used to,” Nelson said. “So, you will pardon the occasional flounder.”
“And could you please dispose of this pastry without the staff member seeing my lack of interest? I’d hate for her to be discouraged.”
Besides, eating this would be a sacrilege.
“Consider it done,” Nelson said, and then he just had to add, “So, I presume it’s Isabel’s pastries or nothing for you from now on?”
Oh yes, Nelson knew. Emily was right. This wouldn’t stay secret for long.
“That’s very observant, Nelson,” I said. “It’s Isabel’s pastries or nothing for me.”
“Duly noted and perhaps she’ll find it in her heart to spoil us occasionally with her creations.”
By 9.20 am it was clear that Isabel wasn’t coming to the library. I was still teetering on the edge of denial, and it was a constant war between my feelings and my rationale. Perhaps she was dealing with an issue and needed some time by herself. But why wouldn’t she share that with me?
Our level of intimacy, in and out of bed, had reached a stage where it was difficult to imagine why she’d be reluctant to let me in on whatever she was going through. Even if she was angry at me about something, Isabel was not a wilting flower who wouldn’t tell me to my face.
A business meeting had already started, and Andy let me know I needed to log in because there was conflict erupting among the European executives. I’d never been late for a meeting, and so I’d never needed Andy to message me reminding me how late I was running for a meeting.
But for all the big salaries these executives earned, how were they not able to resolve the issues themselves? As far as they knew I was still only the Chief Executive Officer, and not the soon-to-be chairman and president. So in keeping up with appearances, I had to pretend to care about trivial issues in order to solve the bigger problems.
As if my mind wasn’t already tightly wrapped around very important matters of the heart.
The minute the meeting ended, I switched on the audio in my father’s room. A warmth filled me just hearing Isabel’s throaty voice.
But the more I listened, the more noticeable became the breathless flutter escaping her lips when she paused a few seconds before going on with the next sentence. Almost as if she was having difficulty keeping her composure. Or worse, suppressing some misery lodged inside her.
Now I was convinced something was wrong. Isabel was distraught and I had something to do with that because it wasn’t me she was seeking out for comfort. There was a tightness in my chest as I made my way to the north wing.
I slowed down before entering my father’s room, trying to still the gripping panic consuming me. Since when did I panic about anything? The closest I’d come to that was the day my father had his stroke, and it seemed everything was hanging in the balance.
But even then my fear was kept extremely private, restricted to the occasional heart-stopping moment when I was alone, grappling with the responsibilies that had suddenly befallen me. Despite the chairman and president of the board being incapacitated, the face of the empire had to remain every bit as strong as it always had under his reign.
I could easily have allowed myself to become buried under that burden. But then I remembered my father”s immense trust in my ability to one day take his place. He didn’t talk about it often, but when he did it was over a glass of whiskey at the end of a long day. And even if those talks were mostly about business, they meant the world to me. Because those were the times when I saw a different man from the one everyone respected and feared. And not the cold callous bastard Henry Belmont presented to the world.
He was older, haunted by things he’d done and by things he never got to do. And he was looking at me to carry on his legacy by sacrificing a normal life and giving everything to the empire he’d helped his father and grandfather to build.
To me he presented this dominant authority, larger-than-life, who expected nothing less than perfection. There was no margin for error. My only goal in life had become to make my father proud. The same father who saw me as a reproduction of himself, rather than a son needing his dad.
Until one rainy night in a bookshop not so long ago.
And for all the things my father taught me in business, he never taught me anything about life. Which left me at a disadvantage, considering the very person who uncovered my capacity to love, and who showed me a different way to appreciate life, was also the woman at the root of my current state of coming apart at the seams.
Something I had no experience in dealing with.
I finally entered my father’s room, welcomed by the blinking fairy lights and sad French ballads softly serenading in the background. Isabel was on the chair, legs curled beneath her, facing away from the door and reading from the book on her lap.
The usual animation was missing from her tone. Her voice was soft, as if it took immense effort to get the words out. I wanted to watch her for as long as it took her to realize I was there. She was so achingly exquisite, an unframed work of art under a halo of fairy lights.
When her head lifted, she stilled, and so did my beating heart. But even if she knew I was there, there was no response. “My sweet,” I said softly, my last attempt at convincing myself it was all a mistake, an error that hand somehow crept into our lives and tipped our world upside-down.
She was going to turn around with that smile of hers that always sent a jolt of electricity through me. But she didn’t. Instead, her gaze dropped to her lap. I moved to the other side of my father’s bed, facing her.
“Look at me,” I pleaded, my voice softening as I tried to gently twist my way into her consciousness. “Look at me, Isabel. Please.”
Her gaze lifted to mine. I felt a jolt, but not in the usual pleasant way. She looked so pale and vulnerable, and such a far cry from the sultry siren who’d coiled ravenously beneath me two days ago. This was reminiscent of the devastation when I left her to wake up alone in the penthouse. After which I’d promised myself I’d never cause her misery again.
“I didn’t hear from you last night,” I said carefully. “You didn’t come to the library this morning. Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”
She bit into her lower lip, which I’d come to know as a telltale sign of her distress. There was a split second where I wanted to sink to my knees in front of her and gather her in my arms, and tell her we could fix whatever was wrong.
But the guarded look in her eyes stopped me. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” she said, so softly I could barely hear her.
“It’s fine. I’m just happy you’re okay.” My voice came out strained, the last flicker of hope for an easy resolution crushed.
Her gaze wandered back to her lap. I stuffed my hands in my pockets, stifling my frustration. This was not a straightforward business deal I could simply maneuver into the result I desired. It was a fragile bubble housing all our thoughts and emotions. A bubble that threatened to burst, infecting the air with agony.
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” I asked.
It seemed my whole world hung on what she said next. The moment struck a precarious balance, waiting to be snatched and molded into a future, good or bad. Isabel plucked a sliver of Dutch courage from the ether and looked up again, ineffectively hiding the flash of agony in her green eyes.
Her voice was an open wound, singed with regret. “I can’t do this anymore… It was a mistake.”
Her words left a contrail of dread echoing in their wake. I leaned forward slightly. It was important that she heard the question I was about to ask. “You can’t do what anymore, Isabel?”
The sliver of Dutch courage disappeared back to where it came from, and her gaze dipped down to her lap again. “This… Us.”
And just like that, it was over. The bubble had burst. This… Us. Two simple words that were nothing if not sharp blades hacking away at my insides. I don’t know how long I stood there, unable to move, an erratic pulse thumping in my ears as my mind tried to make sense of the excruciating pain searing through me.
My only conclusion was that this must be what it felt like when your heart broke into a thousand pieces and the bloody shards scattered across the floor. The old Roman made a guest appearance, the one who buried feelings in places safe from discovery and exposure. The one who slipped on the impenetrable mask and went about his business of showering the empire with attention instead of living an actual life.
My phone beeped, Andy reminding me to attend yet another meeting. My truancy was affecting the business. The very business I could rely on to distract and possibly save me from being engulfed in the waves of torment roiling through my chest.
Isabel sighed softly, as if to exorcise her own anguish. And then she continued reading to my father.
I was dismissed.
Was this what it felt like for her to wake up in the penthouse alone? Pushed aside and left to battle the misery she felt on her own? I didn’t understand any of this, nor did I have a history of being rejected to draw from. Before Isabel, there was never any glimmer of a relationship. I stayed clear of anything resembling commitment to one person, because no one held the secret to earning my loyalty.
It was as if my entire life had been spent saving up an ocean’s worth of devotion to bestow upon this one woman, who was now squeezing the life out of my heart she clutched in her hands.
Then I saw it, a tear dripping onto the book’s open page. And then another. A rainstorm of anguish fertilizing her own pain as she continued reading. I didn’t dare to comfort her, even if it was all I wanted to do.
There was no crossing the gaping fracture between us, the mystery of what led up to this moment. Only one thing could tell me which one of us was at the root of this holy mess. I walked to her side and gently folded my fingers over the nape of her neck, her skin soft and cool the palm of my hand. Still, she continued reading.
But there it was, the familiar shiver tiptoeing up and down her spine.
It seemed I was the one responsible here then, the one who’d somehow fucked up, because Isabel reacted to my touch the same way she always did. She hadn’t lost her affection for me overnight. This was something else. Something to do with me, my actions. Which was sort of a relief, even if I didn’t know what I’d done.
There was nothing I could do if she didn’t feel anything anymore. But if it was me, then perhaps I could fix things and repair whatever damage I’d apparently caused. As long as that jubilant little trembled at my touch, there was a shred of hope, patiently waiting for me to breathe life back into it again.
My lips brushed her cheek, for no other reason than to show her my commitment to resolving this, to doing whatever it took to make this surging disaster disappear from our lives. And not to have it steal away this one thing that had become what I thought was our near-perfect little world.
“You know where to find me if there’s anything you want to talk about,” I said. “We’re not leaving this here.”
Then I left the room, her delicate scent clinging to my lips. This dreadful feeling was not to be underestimated. It was fucking excruciating. I was a man of action, solving problems was my thing. How could something as simple as righting a wrong get so complicated? Whatever the fuck the wrong was.
In the time it took me to walk to my place in the south wing, my resolve was cemented. All I had to do was convince Isabel that there was nothing so egregious that it was worth sacrificing this astonishing path we were apparently meant to share. And clearly, it was going to take a more direct approach to excavate the truth from the luminous nymph.
With that thought I went into the business meeting, the Old Roman neatly tucked away again for when I needed him. If ever I needed him again.