The day after the headlines exploded, Isabella tried to ignore the growing pit in her stomach.
She knew what she'd signed up for. Knew the contract. Knew the rules.
But none of it had prepared her for the twisted circus of the media.
The articles weren't just calling her a liar — they were questioning everything: her past, her character, her intentions.
And Dominic hadn't said a single word in her defense.
The Volkov estate felt colder that morning.
Dominic hadn't come home the night before. His assistant had left a message: "Emergency meeting in Zurich. Back tomorrow."
No explanation. No apology.
Isabella sat on the terrace, scrolling through the endless stream of cruel headlines. One article included a photo from the gala — her smiling beside Dominic, his hand lightly touching her waist.
They looked like a power couple.
They looked like strangers.
She threw her phone onto the lounge chair and stared up at the cloudless sky.
What had she become?
Later that afternoon, Helena arrived unannounced — perfectly dressed, clipboard in hand, sunglasses pushed onto her platinum hair.
"You need to make a statement," she said without greeting.
Isabella raised an eyebrow. "What kind of statement?"
"A public one. Something strong. Sincere. You need to remind the world that this marriage isn't just a PR move."
"But it is a PR move."
Helena waved her hand dismissively. "That's beside the point. What matters is optics. You've been painted as a weak, grasping little thing. That narrative needs to change — today."
Isabella stared at her. "You're serious."
"As a heart attack. There's a charity event tonight. Your name is still on the guest list. Dominic's isn't."
"Because he's in Zurich."
Helena smirked. "Zurich? Please. That man's as allergic to emotional confrontation as he is to gluten."
Isabella narrowed her eyes. "You knew?"
"I know everything. I also know that you have a very rare opportunity tonight — to stop being the victim of this narrative and start controlling it."
"And how do you suggest I do that?"
Helena leaned in. "Be the woman everyone wants to root for."
That evening, Isabella stood before the mirror in a midnight blue gown — elegant, powerful, breathtaking.
She didn't feel like herself.
She felt like a version of herself she hadn't met yet.
The driver pulled up to the luxury event hall downtown. Paparazzi swarmed like flies. Flashes exploded as soon as she stepped out of the car.
She kept her chin high.
Smile practiced. Back straight. Heart pounding.
She walked inside like she belonged.
Because now she did.
The ballroom was glittering, crowded, and humming with money. But as soon as Isabella walked in, conversations slowed.
People turned.
Some smiled politely. Others whispered behind glasses of champagne.
She found her name at the head table, took her seat, and waited.
The host approached her with a gentle nod. "Mrs. Volkov, would you mind saying a few words after dinner? Just a small speech. People are... curious about you."
She hesitated.
Then: "Of course."
Later, with all eyes on her, Isabella stepped up to the stage. The microphone squeaked once, then settled.
She looked out at the sea of eyes — judgmental, skeptical, expectant.
"My name is Isabella Volkov," she said, voice steady. "And yes, I married one of the most powerful CEOs in the country last week."
A pause.
"I know what you're thinking. That I'm too young. Too unknown. Too... convenient."
A few murmurs. Some awkward chuckles.
She smiled gently. "Maybe that's true. Maybe I'm all of those things. But here's what else I am — a woman who's been underestimated her entire life. Who's had to fight for every opportunity, every inch of dignity, and every shred of self-respect."
Now they were listening.
"I married a man who doesn't believe in love. And maybe I didn't either — not at first. But I believe in loyalty. In strength. In standing beside someone even when the world doesn't understand why."
Her voice softened. "So judge me if you want. But don't mistake my silence for weakness. I may be quiet... but I'm notinvisible."
Applause broke out. Real. Genuine.
Isabella blinked, stunned for half a second.
She hadn't just spoken.
She'd taken the stage.
Back at the estate, well past midnight, she walked barefoot through the quiet halls. Her heart was still racing from the high of that moment — the control, the clarity.
She turned into the hallway that led to the guest room and stopped short.
Dominic was standing at the end of the corridor.
Home.
His suit jacket was slung over one shoulder. His tie undone. There were shadows under his eyes she hadn't seen before.
"You were supposed to be in Zurich," she said.
"I was."
He stepped toward her slowly.
"I saw your speech."
She held his gaze. "Did you like it?"
"I didn't like it," he said quietly. "I felt it."
That surprised her. "You felt something?"
He nodded once.
"It scared the hell out of me."
Silence fell between them, thick and fragile.
Then he spoke again.
"You were right, Isabella. I've been hiding. Behind rules. Behind contracts. Behind everything that made this feel safe."
She didn't interrupt.
"And I thought if I controlled every part of this, I'd never have to lose again."
She took a shaky breath. "But that's not how life works, Dominic."
"I know," he whispered. "I'm just... not used to losing control."
"Well," she said, stepping closer, "maybe it's time you learned."
Their eyes locked.
There was no kiss. No grand embrace.
Just heat. Unspoken words. The ache of something almost.
Then she walked past him, her shoulder brushing his arm.
And for once...
He let her go.
But only because he knew this time—
He'd have to come after her.