Ficool

Chapter 18 - Chapter 18: Leaked.

George woke with a heaviness in his chest, the kind that no amount of sleep could lift. He shuffled into the kitchen, poured himself a steaming cup of coffee, and settled in front of the television. The rich aroma swirled around him as he waited for the morning news to roll in.

Across the room, Isabelle sat by the dining table, a smile painted across her face as she gently fed little Jedee. Her laughter mingled with the soft coos of the baby, a picture of domestic calm.

Then, the broadcast shifted.

The screen filled with familiar images—his own face staring back at him, Nerissa's hand in his, the two of them smiling under a canopy of flowers. Wedding photos. Their wedding photos. The private vows they had exchanged—once their most intimate, guarded moment—now played for the entire world to see.

The headline blared in bold letters: "Isabelle: The Liar Actress? Rumors Suggest CEO's Baby May Not Be His."

George's grip on his coffee cup tightened until the porcelain bit into his fingers. Across the room, Isabelle froze mid-spoon, her smile evaporating as the truth she had buried was now exposed for all to see.

George's chest swelled with a strange, quiet triumph as the images lingered on the screen. At last, the truth—his truth—was out in the open. He sipped his coffee slowly, letting the moment sink in like a long-awaited victory.

Across from him, Isabelle's complexion drained of color. Her lips trembled before she forced a brittle laugh.

"What rubbish," she spat, her voice too high, too quick. "You know how the media twists things."

Without waiting for his reply, she lunged for the remote and clicked the television off, plunging the room into a tense silence. The hum of the screen fading felt like the walls closing in.

She turned to him with a nervous smile, her hand brushing his arm in a calculated show of tenderness.

"Don't worry, George," she murmured, her eyes darting away. "I can handle this. I'll fix everything."

But George only studied her, the steam from his coffee curling between them like an unspoken challenge.

A week earlier, George had been the one to set it in motion.

Quietly, deliberately, he had given certain people access to his most guarded files—photos, videos, proof. Pieces of his personal life that no one was ever meant to see, now placed into the hands of those who would make sure the world saw them.

He hadn't cared about the storm it might unleash, nor the scandal it could drag over El Ecuador. Reputation, image, corporate stability—it all felt like meaningless weight compared to the truth that needed to be told.

The fallout was swift. His phone rang endlessly that day, each call a mixture of outrage and shock.

When his father's name flashed on the screen, George already knew what was coming.

"What on earth have you done?" his father's voice thundered, each word clipped with barely contained fury. "Do you have any idea what kind of mess you've created? This is reckless, George—disgraceful! You've humiliated this family!"

George listened in silence, the rebuke crashing over him like cold rain. But deep inside, he felt no regret—only a grim, unshakable sense of justice.

George's jaw tightened as his father's voice continued to rage through the phone. Finally, he cut in, his tone low but sharp.

"Don't meddle in my personal affairs," he said coldly. "Just like you never stopped yourself from going with another woman when Mom was sick in bed."

There was a stunned pause on the other end, the kind that carries both shock and anger.

"Watch your tongue, George," his father growled.

"No," George snapped, his voice rising. "I've watched long enough. I've kept quiet long enough. So don't preach to me about shame, about family honor, when you've dragged this family through worse."

The air between them crackled with unspoken resentment, years of bitterness crashing to the surface. The argument spiraled—accusations thrown, old wounds ripped open, the kind of words that can't be taken back.

By the time the call ended, George's chest heaved, his grip on the phone so tight his knuckles ached. The silence afterward was heavier than the shouting had been.

Since that call with his father, George had grown sharper, more watchful. Every move Isabelle made, every glance, every hushed tone—he noticed it.

That morning, while she paced the corner of the living room, phone pressed to her ear, he lingered in the hallway just out of sight. Her voice was low but urgent, tinged with a nervous edge.

"Yes, Drake… I'll handle it. The divorce will be finalized soon," she whispered. "Just a little longer."

George's jaw locked. A slow, burning heat crawled up his spine.

So that's your game, Isabelle.

He stepped forward, his voice slicing through the air like a blade.

"I will never let that happen, Isabelle," he said, each word deliberate and heavy. "Over my dead body."

She froze mid-step, the color draining from her face as she turned toward him. The phone slipped slightly from her grip, and for the first time in a long while, she looked genuinely afraid.

Rage flared in Isabelle's eyes, burning away the flicker of fear. She clutched the phone tighter, her voice rising with venom.

"Oh, so you still choose her?" she spat. "That woman left you without a word, George. She abandoned you! And you're still going to stand there and defend her?"

George didn't flinch.

Isabelle's lips curled into a bitter smile, her words turning into a threat.

"Fine. If that's the choice you're making… then hear me now—I'll take Jedee and we'll be on the first flight back to California. You'll never see him again."

The room seemed to shrink around them. Her threat hung in the air like a dagger poised to strike, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved. George's coffee had long gone cold, but the fire in his chest burned hotter than ever.

George's stare hardened, his voice dropping to a deadly calm.

"The moment you fly to California," he said slowly, "I will make sure Jedee is no longer an El Ecuador."

The words hit like a slap. Isabelle's breath caught, her defiance faltering for the first time.

"You wouldn't dare," she hissed, but there was a tremor in her voice.

George stepped closer, his gaze locked on hers.

"Try me," he said. "One word from me and the name, the inheritance, the future you keep flaunting—gone. All of it."

For a long moment, they stared at each other, the tension so thick it was almost suffocating. Isabelle's rage simmered beneath the surface, but George could see it now—the fear she couldn't quite hide.

Isabelle's lips pressed into a thin line. She wanted to scream, to claw back control, but George's words had pinned her in place. The truth was, he could do it—and she knew it.

She forced a shaky laugh, trying to disguise the crack in her armor.

"Fine, George. Keep your threats," she said, her tone icy. "You've made your point."

But as she turned away, her eyes darkened with a quiet, dangerous resolve. She picked up her phone again, thumbing through contacts with deliberate slowness. She would not be humiliated like this. Not by him, not by her.

If George wants war, she thought, I'll give him one.

She plastered on a sweet smile before facing him again, masking the fury boiling inside. "Don't worry, darling," she purred. "We're still a family, aren't we?"

More Chapters