10. Isabelle
I knew who it was before I turned around.
That voice. The way he said my name—Issy—like it belonged to him. Like I belonged to him.
Femi stood there with a bouquet of white roses cradled in his arms. His suit was immaculate, charcoal gray, perfectly tailored to his shoulders. He looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine spread. He looked like everything I'd wanted for the past week.
And I had absolutely nothing to say to him.
My body betrayed me anyway. The anger I'd been nursing, the hurt, the righteous indignation—it all dissolved the moment his eyes met mine.
He was here. After days of silence, after the phone call that had left me hollow, after everything—he was standing in my boutique with flowers in his hands and that look on his face.
The one that said I'm sorry and I need you and please forgive me all at once.
I turned to Matteo. His expression was careful, neutral, but something flickered behind his eyes. He'd seen Femi. He understood.
"I'm sorry," I said, my voice tight. "I need to—we can talk later."
"Of course." His voice was steady. Warm. "Go. Take your time."
I walked toward the fitting room without looking back. My heels clicked against the floor, too loud, too fast. The crowd parted around me, and I heard the whispers start—who was that man, why was she leaving, what was happening—but I didn't stop.
The fitting room door was still open. I stepped inside.
Femi followed. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing us in.
"Baby—"
I held up my hand, stopping him mid-step.
"Where were you?"
He froze. The roses lowered slightly, forgotten. "What?"
"Where. Were. You." Each word came out precise, controlled, though my heart was hammering. "You're here now, yes. But where were you for the past five days?"
"Isabelle, I'm here now—"
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. "You're not. You haven't been here for days. You might as well have disappeared from my life entirely." My voice was rising. I couldn't stop it. "Where were you? Why didn't I hear anything from you? Not a single call. Not one text. Nothing."
Femi moved closer. His hand came up, reaching for my cheek, but I stepped back. His fingers hung in the air for a moment before falling to his side.
"Isabelle, I'm sorry." He sounded sincere. He always sounded sincere. "Work has been insane. The move to New York is taking longer than I expected, and there have been complications with the business, and—"
"I have work too." My arms crossed over my chest, a barrier between us. "I just opened a new boutique. In a foreign city. After a crisis that nearly derailed everything. And I still had time. I still would have made time for you."
"I know. You're absolutely right." He took another step forward, careful this time. "I should have called. I should have been there for you. I handled it badly, and I'm sorry."
The apology hung between us. Simple. Direct.
But it wasn’t enough.
"You gave me a lecture," I said quietly. "When I called you about the mannequins, I was panicking and overwhelmed. I was exhausted and I needed someone to just... listen. To tell me it would be okay. You gave me a strategy session, instead."
"I was trying to help."
"I didn't need help. I needed comfort."
His jaw tightened. For a moment, frustration crossed his face—a crack in the polished exterior—but it smoothed away quickly, replaced by that careful patience he wore like an armor.
"You're right," he said again. "I got it wrong. I'll do better, I promise."
"Will you?"
"Yes. I mean it." He stepped closer, and this time I didn't move away. His hand found mine, fingers interlacing. "I mean it, Isabelle. I'm in this for the long run. Whatever it takes."
His thumb traced circles on my palm. That old familiar pattern. My body remembered it, responded to it, even as my mind screamed warnings.
"I flew across the world to apologize in person," he continued. "I could have called. I could have sent flowers and hoped you'd forgive me. But I'm here. Standing in front of you. Doesn't that count for something?"
It did. I hated how much it did.
But it wasn't enough to erase the silence. The days of wondering if I really mattered to him. The way he'd made me feel small and incapable with his lecture, then vanished entirely when I needed him most.
I pulled my hand free.
"I can't do this right now." I moved toward the door, needing air, needing space. "My family is here. My show just ended. This isn't the time or place."
"Isabelle, please—"
"Not now, Femi."
I opened the door and walked out, leaving him standing there with his apology and his roses.
The boutique had transformed while I was gone.
The runway was being dismantled by efficient crew members, chairs folded and stacked against the walls.
My staff moved efficiently through the space, returning it to its intended purpose: a place where beautiful things were sold to people who could afford them.
Xavier stood near the champagne table, scrolling through his phone with practiced disinterest. He looked up when he saw me, and his gaze immediately flicked past my shoulder, tracking something behind me. His expression didn't change, but I knew. Femi had followed me out.
"There you are." His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp.
"Where is everyone?"
"Aria dragged Kim to look at dresses. I’m hoping by the time they get back Kim would have picked something.
She’s uncomfortable when I try to spoil her.
" He pocketed his phone. "Mom and grandma are somewhere in the back, probably critiquing everything.
And Sebastian had to take a call. Some crisis at the Singapore property. "
"Of course, there is."
"There's always a crisis at the Singapore property." He smiled, but his eyes were still doing that thing—darting between me and whatever was behind me. "You okay?"
I heard footsteps coming our way. I knew who it was immediately.
"Isabelle." Femi's voice, closer now. "Can we please talk about this properly?"
"No."
Xavier straightened. His whole demeanor shifted—not aggressive, but present. Alert. "Femi!" He stepped forward, all easy charm. "When did you get in? I didn't know you were coming."
Femi blinked at the interruption, momentarily thrown. "I flew in this afternoon. Wanted to surprise Isabelle."
"Mission accomplished, I'd say." Xavier clapped him on the shoulder, already steering him away from me. "Listen, you have to try this champagne. It's from that vineyard I was telling you about last month, the one in Tuscany. Absolutely brilliant stuff. Come on, I'll pour you a glass."
"I was hoping to speak with Isabelle—"
"She'll still be here in five minutes. The champagne, however, is disappearing at an alarming rate." Xavier was already walking, his hand firm on Femi's back. "Did you eat on the plane? The catering here is excellent. There's this little thing with figs and prosciutto, you wouldn't believe—"
Their voices faded as Xavier guided Femi toward the far end of the boutique. I watched them go, my shoulders dropping with relief.
A moment later, Xavier reappeared at my elbow. "You're welcome."
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it." He leaned against the wall beside me, arms crossed. "So. That's happening again?"
I let out a long breath. "I don't know."
"You don't know if it's happening, or you don't know if you want it to happen?"
"Both. Neither." I pressed my fingers to my temples where a headache was beginning to bloom. "It's complicated."
"It always is with you two." He was quiet for a moment. "Can I ask you something?"
"Since when do you ask permission?"
"Fair point." He turned to face me fully, his expression unusually serious. "What do you actually want, Isabelle? Not what you think you should want. Not what makes sense on paper or looks good to everyone else. What do you want?"
The question landed somewhere deep in my chest. I didn't have an answer ready.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I thought I knew. When Femi came back into my life, it felt like fate. Like the universe was giving us a second chance to get it right. But now..."
"Now?"
"Now I'm not sure we ever wanted the same things. I'm not sure we want the same things now." I looked at him, searching his face. "What do you think?"
Xavier laughed. "You're asking me for relationship advice? The man who spent ten years avoiding commitment like it was a contagious disease?"
"You figured it out, eventually."
"Kim figured it out. I just got lucky enough to be in the room when she did." His smile faded, serious now. "Look. Femi's my friend. Has been for years. He's a decent guy, and I think he genuinely cares about you."
"But?" I heard the word coming before he said it.
Xavier hesitated. That alone told me everything I needed to know.
"But I don't think he's the right one for you.
" He said it carefully, like he was handling something fragile.
"I've watched you two together, back when we were all in boarding school together, compared that to now.
And it's always felt like... like you were trying to fit into something that wasn't quite the right shape.
Like you were making yourself smaller to match what he needed. "
I wanted to argue. But I couldn't.
"You deserve someone who sees all of you," Xavier continued quietly. "The ambition, the drive, the way you refuse to back down from anything. Not someone who wants the polished version. Not someone who loves the idea of you more than the reality."
My throat was tight. I didn't trust myself to speak.
"But that's just my opinion." He shrugged, the heaviness lifting. "What do I know? I'm just the family disappointment who got lucky."
"You're not a disappointment, Xavier."
"Tell that to Dad's ghost." He grinned, but there was something underneath it. Something we never talked about. "Go mingle with your guests. I'll keep Femi occupied."
He disappeared into the crowd before I could thank him again.
I stood there for a moment, processing everything, feeling the weight of it settle in my bones. Then my gaze drifted across the room.
Matteo.
He was impossible to miss—the only man in a sea of women examining dresses and sipping champagne. He stood near a rack of evening gowns, looking out of place, his hands in his pockets and a slightly overwhelmed expression on his face.
Naomi was talking to him.
No—Naomi was interrogating him. I could tell by the way she stood, weight on one hip, chin lifted, that particular angle she used when she was sizing someone up. I'd shown her his picture from the vineyard's website, back when I'd told her about Florence. She knew exactly who he was.
I crossed the room toward them.
"—and how long have you known Isabelle?" Naomi was asking as I approached.
"A few weeks," Matteo answered. His voice was patient, amused. "We met in New York. At the hotel launch party."
"And you just happened to run into her again in Florence?"
"I live in Tuscany. Florence is an hour away. I was there for business."
"Convenient."
"Geography often is."
Naomi's eyes narrowed, but I could see she was enjoying this. Matteo, to his credit, seemed to be enjoying it too, meeting her interrogation with calm and good humor.
"Naomi." I stepped between them. "Stop terrorizing my guest."
"I'm not terrorizing anyone." She looked genuinely offended. "I'm making conversation. Getting to know your friend."
"You're conducting a background check."
"Same thing." But she was smiling now, some tension I hadn't noticed releasing from her shoulders. She pulled me into a hug, tight and brief. "You did good tonight, Isa. Really good. I’m so proud of you."
"Thank you."
"The dress was a dream. I've already had hundreds of people commenting on my post, gushing about the Isabelle Dubois. Gosh, the internet works fast." She pulled back, hands on my shoulders. "I'm going to go find more champagne and leave you two alone. Try not to be too awkward."
She vanished into the crowd with a knowing look thrown over her shoulder.
Matteo watched her go. "Your friend is terrifying."
"She's protective."
"I noticed." He turned back to me, and his expression softened. "Congratulations again, Bella. The show was truly beautiful. You should be very proud."
"I am." It felt strange to say it out loud, to claim that pride. "Thank you for coming. And for bringing Sofia. She seems..."
"Intense?"
"I was going to say enthusiastic."
"That's a kind way of putting it." He smiled, that warm private smile I was starting to recognize. "She'll calm down eventually. Maybe in a decade or two."
A laugh escaped me, surprising us both. Some of the tension in my chest loosened.
We stood there for a moment, the noise of the party washing around us. It should have been awkward—after what happened earlier. But somehow, it wasn't. Matteo had a way of making silence feel comfortable.
"How long will you be in Milan?" he asked.
"Another week, maybe. Then I need to go back to New York for my brother’s wedding planning and preparation." I shrugged. "The usual chaos."
He nodded slowly. "And after that?"
"London, probably. The main boutique needs attention. I've been neglecting it."
"You've been busy building an empire."
"Something like that."
Another pause. He was watching me with that careful attention, like he was memorizing my face, the moment.
"Would you be willing to spend time with me?" he asked. "Before you leave Milan. Dinner, perhaps. Or just a walk. Nothing complicated."
"Matteo..."
He chuckled softly, reading everything I wasn’t saying. The sound was warm, resigned, tinged with something bittersweet.
Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek. His lips were soft, warm. His stubble scratched lightly against my skin. He smelled like wine and cedar and something uniquely him.
"I know," he said quietly, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. "You have things to figure out and your life is complicated right now. I understand."
His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The gesture was tender, intimate, the kind of touch that meant everything and nothing all at once.
"Figure them out, Bella," he said. "And when you're ready—give me a call." His fingers lingered for just a moment before falling away. "I'll be waiting."
He stepped back slowly, reluctantly. Smiled once more—sad and hopeful and achingly kind.
Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd to find his sister and leave my life as quietly as he'd entered it.
I stood there, my cheek still warm where his lips had been, and watched him go.