Chapter 2
Alex
"Mr. Walker, real estate's down three points since the opening bell. The board's old guard is breathing down your neck over this stack of leveraged buyouts." Chris dropped a thick file on my desk.
I loosened my top button and leaned back, eyes closed, rubbing my temples.
Days of running on fumes had my head pounding. The market had been swinging wild, and every acquisition needed a snap decision for maximum profit.
Old Walker had been rotting in the ICU at St. Mary Hospital on Long Island for two weeks now, tubes and respirators keeping him alive.
Any day now, the old man could flatline, and the family's side branches—along with the major shareholders clutching their stock certificates—were circling like vultures, pressing down on me harder than ever.
They hammered me in every meeting: too cold, too old to still be single. They needed ammunition to knock me off my perch as heir apparent. An unmarried, aggressive successor was too much of a wild card for the group.
So I'd decided to propose to Isadora and shut their mouths once and for all.
Isadora was mild, careful. Not old New York money, but well-educated, clean background, obedient enough. No way she'd stir up a Walker family scandal. The perfect wife.
For me, this wedding had nothing to do with love. I just needed to give everyone doubting me an answer they couldn't pick apart.
One hour later.
A private room at St. Patrick's Cathedral.
Two bespoke tailors flown in from Savile Row were doing my final fitting for the wedding suit.
A shutter snapped behind me.
I turned. My brother Cody stood in the doorway with a camera, his groomsman suit half-unbuttoned, leaning against the frame. He watched the tailors work without speaking, adjusting his aperture.
That slouch of his—I shook my head.
Rumors floated around that I'd forced Cody out of the company, that he'd been shoved into photography. Truth was, we got along fine.
He'd never had the stomach for corporate bloodsport. He just wanted to roam the world with his camera. So I'd shouldered the family burden, let him chase his art without looking back.
"Mr. Walker, shall we adjust the collar? Half a centimeter more and you'll have better range of motion." The lead tailor's voice cut through the silence.
"Leave it." I waved them off. "You can go."
"Yes, Mr. Walker."
The two tailors packed up their measuring tapes and toolboxes, slipped out, and shut the door behind them.
The second it closed, another shutter click. I turned. Cody lowered his camera and grinned.
"Perfect. You look like you're heading to a funeral."
I ignored him, walked to the mahogany table, picked up cigar cutters, and snipped the end off a cigar. Blue flame lit the tobacco. I took a drag and leaned against the table, watching Cody.
"Congrats on the wedding, big brother." He snapped another shot. "Try to look happy, at least."
"Put the camera down."
Cody shrugged and let it hang around his neck, eyeing me lazily. "You look exactly like one of the company brochures today. You sure you're here to get married?"
I frowned, irritation flaring. The idea that marriage should make you happy—I didn't really get it.
Not that Isadora didn't fit. She checked every box.
But I didn't expect married life to be anything special.
After the ceremony, I'd still wake up at the same time, go to the office, sit through meetings, and handle the endless work.
The only difference? Someone else in the house at night.
"You staying just to run your mouth?" I forced myself to stop wondering what living under the same roof as Isadora would actually feel like.
Cody didn't answer. He poured himself ice water at the bar, took a sip, then leaned back and studied me.
"I caught a glimpse of our future Mrs. Walker from way back there.
I'm curious—are you marrying her because the board geezers keep pushing you to settle down and prove you're stable, or is there another reason? "
Before I could tell him he was wasting my time, he lowered his voice. "Like maybe she's got a face that looks way too much like someone?"
My expression went cold.
He didn't say the name, but the moment he dangled that obvious hint, my mind flashed back to that flower shop in Brooklyn six months ago.
That afternoon, Manhattan got hammered by a freak rainstorm. The town car's engine died. Chris went to arrange backup transport. To escape the rain, I'd ducked into that shop where Isadora was trimming stems.
She heard the door and looked up, confused. In that instant, I saw her face clearly—especially the small dark mole beneath her left eye.
That moment of overwhelming shock, which lasted for several seconds, remained crystal clear in my memory.
She was too similar. Far too similar. Whether it was her features or that fleeting expression when she lifted her eyes, she was no different from Valentina—the woman who had disappeared three years ago without a word.
Back then, finding a girl who looked exactly like her and had no powerful background to complicate things was, in my eyes, the most efficient way to shut the board up.
At least at first. Now, whether my feelings for this woman still fell into the category of seeking comfort—I wasn't entirely sure.
Like I'd been puzzling over earlier, marriage didn't require extra feelings.
But if it wasn't Isadora, if it was some heiress the family arranged—would I be so calm about it? I didn't know the answer yet.
I pulled myself back to the present and walked to the window, staring at the gray sky.
"Cody, pack up your sentimental theories.
" My tone stayed flat. "The board's been ganging up on me to get married.
They think calling me unstable will weaken my hold on Walker Group.
Over the past year, I turned down every arranged match they sent my way because the families behind those women were too aggressive.
They'd only complicate the board dynamics further.
For me, this wedding is just the cleanest solution. "
I set the cigar on the edge of a crystal ashtray and reached up to make a final adjustment to my black silk bow tie.
But as I fed Cody these cold explanations, my mind betrayed me with fragments of Isadora from the past six months.
Her mornings in the kitchen, trying to "commandeer" my espresso machine and ending up covered in coffee grounds, sticking her tongue out sheepishly.
In the back of the Rolls on the way to galas, hidden from the bodyguard and driver's mirrors, she'd hook her pinky around my palm, tapping lightly, until I finally gave in and laced our fingers together.
These tiny moments expanded in my chest, creating something I'd never felt before. Something like longing.
I stared at my reflection, fingertips drumming the table.
I couldn't pinpoint what these memories meant.
I'd never felt this with Valentina. Maybe it was just because Isadora was docile enough?
When she was in the same room, I felt relaxed.
Happy, even. Not the kind of happiness built on wariness and calculation.
It was the absolute safety of total control.
That was the stability I needed. And she could give it to me.
Cody laughed—a sound thick with mockery. "Sounds like you've convinced yourself."
I turned and stared at him coldly.
He set down the glass and strode to the door.
Before leaving, he looked back, his expression complicated.
"Alex, don't be so arrogant. You treat everyone like a tool.
Even marriage is just another contract to calculate.
You really think you can control everything? Someday you're going to eat it hard."
Slam.
The door banged shut, rattling the paintings on the wall.
I looked away and crushed out the cigar. In my vocabulary, there was no such thing as "consequences." Only calculations and control.
St. Patrick's Cathedral. The massive pipe organ swelled beneath the Gothic vaults dozens of yards overhead.
I stood center stage in a black suit, posture flawless. The mahogany pews below were packed—Walker Group's core partners, major board shareholders, mine and Isadora's families.
I wore a perfect smile, stance impeccable, eyes forward, watching the far end of the aisle.
Isadora was walking toward me in that absurdly expensive custom silk gown, right hand looped through her father's arm.
The white veil covered most of her face, but I could still see through the sheer fabric—her black hair straightened to perfection, her makeup carefully applied. She held a bouquet of white roses, a shy smile on her lips. Her eyes crinkled with anticipation for this wedding.
I watched her, something complicated stirring in my chest. This woman was about to become my wife. We'd spend our lives together until death split us apart. Heavy vows. Sounded more like chains. I hated being chained. But right now, the feeling rolling through my chest wasn't that at all.
The symphony ended on a deep chord. Father and daughter stopped in front of me.
At the altar, Mr. Morrow took Isadora's hand with trembling fingers. His eyes reddened. He inhaled deeply, then turned to me, his voice low, almost pleading, full of trust. "Alex, I'm giving you Isadora today. She's a good girl... Please, take care of her."
"You have my word, Mr. Morrow."
I smiled—perfect, composed, the picture of a gentleman—and extended my right hand, taking Isadora smoothly from her father.
The moment my hand touched her ring finger, she trembled slightly, almost shy. Then she looked up at me with the sweetest smile.
I returned it with equal warmth. After Cody pointed out my expression problem, I'd practiced in the mirror. Judging by Isadora's and her father's reactions, it worked.
The handoff complete, Mr. Morrow wiped his eyes and retreated to the guest seats, relieved.
Isadora stood across from me. I caught the faint scent of pollen on her—like the wild irises from her shop. My nerves, wound tight for days, loosened.
The priest opened the gold-edged Bible and looked at me, voice solemn.
"Alex Walker, do you take Miss Isadora Morrow to be your wife?"
Everyone waited for the standard answer.
I looked away, about to speak. But as I turned my head, my gaze swept past the edge of the last row.
A woman stood there. She wore a bold, glaring red dress. She tilted her head slightly, and across a hundred meters, that striking face locked eyes with mine.
Valentina.
My world stopped for half a second. I turned back to Isadora, her eyes full of hope, my mind blank, and blurted out—
"Valentina..."