11. Isabelle
A week passed in a blur of fabric and phone calls and carefully ignored messages.
The Milan boutique demanded everything I had.
Inventory systems to finalize. Staff to train.
Display arrangements to perfect. I spent twelve-hour days on my feet, adjusting mannequins, reorganizing racks, making sure every single detail met my standards before I could leave it in someone else's hands.
Femi's texts arrived like clockwork.
Thinking of you.
I hope the boutique is going well.
I miss you, Issy.
Then the gifts started. Flowers delivered to my hotel. A silk scarf in my favorite shade of blue. A first edition of a book I'd mentioned loving years ago, back when we were young and I thought he hung the moon.
I didn't respond to the texts. I sent the flowers to the staff break room. The scarf stayed in its box. The book... the book I kept. I wasn't made of stone, after all.
But I didn't see him. Not once.
Part of me was still angry—the part that remembered the crushing silence, the lecture instead of comfort, the way he'd shown up at my boutique opening like grand gestures should fix everything.
Grand gestures were easy. Anyone with money could send flowers.
Xavier's voice echoed in my head like a ghost: I don't think he's the right one for you.
But another part of me wondered if I was being too harsh. People made mistakes. People got busy. If he'd come to me himself, shown up at my door instead of sending gifts through delivery services, maybe I would have softened. Maybe by the third try, I would have let him in.
He hadn't, though. He'd stayed away, and I'd let him.
Now I was flying to New York, and there would be no avoiding him there.
He was part of the wedding party after all.
Woven into the fabric of my family's life whether I liked it or not. I wondered how he’d make things right.
Knowing Femi, it would be another grand gesture rather than a heartfelt apology.
I let out a long sigh and stared out the airplane window at the clouds below and tried to form a plan. Would I ignore him? Confront him? Pretend everything was fine until I figured out what I actually wanted?
The uncertainty sat heavy in my chest. I'd always known my own mind. I'd built a career on decisive action, on trusting my instincts, on never second-guessing myself once a choice was made.
But this wasn't fabric or seating arrangements. This was my heart, and my heart had apparently decided to stop cooperating.
My apartment in New York was a rental in the West Village. Two bedrooms, high ceilings, a kitchen I barely used. I'd never seen the point of buying when I was rarely here—London was home, had been since I'd opened the first boutique. New York was just a place I passed through.
The space felt empty when I let myself in. Quiet in that particular way of places that aren't really lived in. I dropped my bags by the door and stood in the middle of the living room, letting the silence settle.
My phone buzzed.
Femi.
I heard you landed. Welcome back. Can I see you?
I stared at the screen for a long moment. Then I set the phone face-down on the counter and went to take a shower.
He was going to have to do a lot more than that.
The Kealoha Foundation offices occupied the top floor of a building in Midtown. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Central Park. The furniture was modern, expensive, chosen to impress. Aria had built this from nothing—a passion project that had grown into something real, something that mattered.
I found her in the main conference room with Priya and Nalani, surrounded by wedding magazines and fabric samples.
Priya was the foundation's operations manager—sharp, efficient, the kind of woman who made things happen through sheer force of will.
Nalani handled the community outreach programs, all warmth and easy charm.
"Finally!" Aria jumped up when she saw me. "I was starting to think you'd gotten lost."
"Traffic." I hugged her, then Priya and Nalani in turn. "Where are the girls?"
"School." Aria made a face. "They both begged to skip. Zoe actually tried to fake a fever this morning. Kim wasn't having it."
"And Evie?"
"Evie informed me, very seriously, that she's twelve and perfectly capable of providing valuable input on wedding dresses." Aria laughed. "She's not wrong, honestly. She has better taste than most adults I know."
We set up in the fitting area I'd had prepared in the conference room. Now, it looked like a private room with good lighting and a three-way mirror. Aria stepped behind the screen to change while I laid out my tools. Pins. Measuring tape. The notebook where I kept all my adjustments.
"So," Aria called from behind the screen. "How are things? Really?"
"Things are fine. The Milan boutique is running smoothly. The team there is excellent."
"I wasn’t asking about the boutique, Isa."
I smiled despite myself. "I know."
She emerged in the base layer of her dress—a silk sheath that would serve as the foundation for everything else. Clean lines, elegant drape, deceptively simple. I circled her slowly, assessing the fit with a critical eye honed by years of practice.
"Arms up."
She obeyed, lifting them gracefully. "You're avoiding my question."
"I'm working." I knelt to check the hemline, running my fingers along the raw edge. "Turn slowly, please."
"Isabelle."
I sighed and sat back on my heels. "Femi is on the back burner for now. I haven't seen him since Milan."
"But he's been trying?"
"Texts. Gifts. The usual."
"And you're not responding."
"I'm thinking." I stood and made a note in my book—left side, half inch. "The bodice needs to come in half an inch on the left. You've lost weight."
"Wedding stress." Aria watched me in the mirror, her expression knowing. "What about the dashing Italian?"
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "There's nothing going on between us."
"No?"
"No. We're friends. Barely even that—we've met maybe four times total."
"Mm-hmm." The sound was pure disbelief.
I looked up. She was smiling that knowing smile, the one that said she didn't believe me for a second.
I looked up sharply. She was smiling that knowing smile, the one that said she didn't believe me for a second, that she could see right through me.
"I'm serious, Aria."
"I know." She patted my shoulder. "Now tell me what you think about the sleeves. I'm second-guessing the lace."
We spent the next hour on adjustments. Sleeves. Neckline. The way the train would fall when she walked. Priya and Nalani offered opinions from the sidelines, and slowly the conversation drifted to other things.
"Sebastian is driving me insane," Aria announced while I pinned the waistline. "He's obsessed with the wedding details. Completely, utterly obsessed."
"That doesn't sound like him."
"I know! I expected to handle everything myself.
Most men want nothing to do with planning—just show up and say the words, that's all they care about.
" She shook her head. "Not Sebastian. He has opinions about the napkin colors.
The font on the invitations. The specific variety of roses for the centerpieces. "
"He always was particular."
"Particular is one thing. Waking me up at three in the morning because he suddenly realized the seating chart puts his business partner too close to an ex-girlfriend is quite another."
Priya snorted. "He didn't."
"He absolutely did. I told him if he woke me up again before six AM, I was calling off the wedding." Aria caught my eye in the mirror. "I wasn't serious. Mostly."
I laughed. "That definitely sounds like my brother."
"The worst part is, he's usually right. His instincts are annoyingly good." She sighed dramatically. "I can't even be mad at him because he keeps solving problems I didn't know we had."
"That's Sebastian. Solving problems no one asked him to solve since he was born."
"Exactly." She smiled, soft now. "I love him, anyway."
The fitting wrapped up around four. I packed my tools while Aria changed back into her regular clothes.
"We’re having dinner tonight," she said, emerging in jeans and a cashmere sweater. "Everyone's coming. Sebastian, Xavier, Kim, your mother and grandmother. You have to be there."
I nodded. There was always a gathering of sorts whenever I was in town. I didn’t expect this time to be any different. "Of course."
"Good." She paused. "Femi was invited too. I'm not sure if he'll come."
My stomach tightened. "I see."
"You don't have to talk to him if you don't want to. But I wanted you to know he might be there."
"I appreciate the warning."
She hugged me goodbye, and I headed back to my apartment to change.
The restaurant was one of those upscale places that didn't need a sign. Dark wood, candlelight, the kind of hushed atmosphere that made everyone speak in lower voices.
I was fashionably late. Intentionally so.
The hostess led me to the private room in the back. I heard the laughter before I saw them—Xavier's unmistakable bark, Kim's warm chuckle, Sebastian's quieter rumble underneath.
And then I was at the table, and everyone was looking up, and there was only one empty seat.
Between Femi and Xavier.
Of course.
Femi stood as I approached, pulling out my chair. The gesture was smooth, practiced. Gentlemanly.
"Isabelle." His voice was warm. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you."
I sat. He pushed my chair in, his fingers brushing my shoulder. Deliberate. Intentional.
Xavier caught my eye from my other side and raised an eyebrow slightly. I gave him a look that said don't start.
Dinner unfolded around me. The appetizers arrived. Wine was poured. Conversation flowed—wedding plans, hotel business, Kim's latest project, Evie's school drama. My mother asked about Milan. My grandmother critiqued the restaurant's wine selection. Normal things. Family things.
But I couldn't focus.
Femi was too close. His arm kept brushing mine when he reached for his glass. His thigh pressed against mine under the table, warm through the fabric of my dress.