Chapter 34
Isabella tried to stop him, but Nathaniel was already heading out the door.
Fine.
Her motorcycle was conveniently parked right outside the restaurant. The technician handed her the keys.
She swung her leg over the bike in one fluid motion.
“Wait.” Nathaniel stepped in front of her, his hand closing around her wrist.
She instinctively tried to pull away, but he was already holding a small bottle of ointment. He gently applied it to her cut with his fingertip.
He was… tending to her injury?
His grip was firm yet careful as he smoothed the cream over her skin. He treated the wound with the reverence of a master artisan handling a priceless artifact. Then, he produced a narrow roll of gauze and wrapped it neatly around her forearm.
“Keep it dry for the next seventy-two hours. Try to minimize use of this hand,” he instructed, his voice a low, resonant murmur that vibrated through her.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm she hadn't felt in years. No one had shown her such deliberate, gentle care since before her world fell apart. The memory of that betrayal five years ago sliced through the moment, cold and sharp. She wrenched her arm back. “Thank you. Take care of Christopher.”
The engine roared to life beneath her. The motorcycle shot forward, a streak of crimson and steel. Her dark hair whipped wildly in the wind, the red dress a defiant banner against the fading light. She was a vision of untamed, breathtaking resolve, seemingly impervious to everything in her wake. Nathaniel’s expression darkened as he watched her disappear.
The tires of her bike crunched on the gravel driveway of Rosewood Manor. Julian Hawthorne was waiting inside, perched on the edge of a sofa, a manila folder resting on his knee.
“The list?” she asked, striding into the room.
“Maxwell is running deep background checks on every name. Results should be in shortly. However,” he said, his tone shifting, “there’s a more pressing issue.” He placed the folder on the coffee table. “Someone is digging. They’re investigating your five years in Africa. Due to an oversight on my part, this photograph was discovered.”
He slid a single photo across the polished surface.
In it, Isabella stood radiant in a crimson bandeau gown. Beside her was a man of regal bearing, his attire dripping with opulence, every finger adorned with massive, glittering diamond rings. He was presenting her with a diamond the size of a pigeon’s egg.
Her brow furrowed. “This was supposed to be destroyed. If they connect the dots…”
“All other copies were. It seems Harrison Winslow kept one for himself. Sophia Kensington now has it,” Julian stated, closing the folder. “We can silence her. Or buy off every major media outlet to contain it.”
“No. It’s too late for that.” Isabella walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of water. She swirled the liquid, watching it spin. “If she’s found it, then let her play her hand. I just hope she’s prepared for the consequences.” Her voice was deceptively light, laced with a chilling promise of retribution.
Julian’s frown deepened. “You want to expose her ourselves?”
“It’s insignificant.”
That same evening, Twitter erupted.
#IsabellaMontgomery
#IsabellaFireflies
#IsabellaFlawlessFall
#IsabellaHeels
#Chanel160thAnniversary
#3DHolographicImaging
#AlexanderWhitmoreEatsShit
Six of the top ten trending topics were about Isabella. Clips of her performance were everywhere, transformed into animated GIFs and viral videos on platforms like YouTube, amassing millions of views and an avalanche of praise.