Isabella Pov
I barely sleep. When morning finally claws its way in through the glass walls of my penthouse, I've already made up my mind. I need someone I can trust. Someone who isn't playing a game, smiling while sharpening knives behind my back. There's only one person who fits.
By noon, Linda's flight is booked. By two, she's texting me a string of emojis that can only be translated as: Holy crap, I'm moving to New York.
She has the degree for it — Bachelor's in Business Administration, concentration in strategic management. She studied for jobs like this. She's smarter than she gives herself credit for, more organized than me by miles, and the only person on earth I've ever trusted with my mess.
So yes, she's my new personal assistant. Official. But when I tell Carlos? He stares at me like I just announced I'm hiring a circus clown to run the finance department.
"This is a mistake," he says flatly, arms folded across his chest as we ride the private elevator down to the lobby.
"No, Carlos. What's a mistake is surrounding myself with vipers who want me dead and calling it a support system."
"You think dragging your best friend into this circus is going to fix it?" His tone is sharp, but not loud. Always calm, always controlled. That's what makes it more infuriating. "She's not prepared for this world."
"She has a degree in business management."
He gives me a look. "So do half the people in this building. That's not the problem."
"Then what is the problem?" I snap, spinning on him.
"You," he says simply. "You make emotional decisions. Bringing in your friend isn't about qualifications. It's about comfort. And comfort is the last thing you can afford right now."
I clench my jaw so hard it hurts. Because he's not wrong — and that only makes me want to fight harder.
"She's on her way," I fire back. "And unless you plan on dragging her off the plane, you'll deal with it."
For the first time, something flickers in his expression. Not anger. Something closer to… warning.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," he mutters, just as the elevator doors slide open.
The flashbulbs hit us instantly. Cameras waiting, reporters shouting questions, microphones shoved forward like weapons. Carlos steps in front of me automatically, shielding me from the crush. I glare at the back of his head, refusing to admit it… I'm glad he does.
"Miss Sterling, over here! Look this way!"
"What does your stepbrother Adrian, who is the legitimate son of Richard Sterling, have to say about you taking over the company?"
My steps falter, just for a second. Legitimate son. The words slice like glass, but I don't let it show. I smooth my face into ice, let my heels click sharp against the marble as if the noise is nothing more than background static. Another voice cuts through the madness:
"Is it true your mother was Mr. Sterling's mistress? That's why you've been hidden until now?"
The cameras flash again, hungry for my reaction. My stomach twists, but my chin stays high.
Then the next question comes — the one that nearly buckles my knees.
"Rumors say Richard Sterling's death wasn't natural. That he was killed. What do you have to say about that?"
The breath freezes in my chest. For a second, the crowd is nothing but white noise, buzzing in my ears. They don't know about the message. They can't know.
Carlos steps in, tall and solid, his voice a calm blade cutting the air. "No further comments."
But the questions keep flying, desperate, vicious.
"Do you deny it, Miss Sterling?"
"Are you afraid?"
"Was it murder?"
The flashes feel like gunfire now, relentless, each one threatening to expose me. I keep walking, mask plastered on, heels unshaken even as my pulse pounds hard enough to break through my ribs. Inside, though, the panic claws. Because someone in this crowd knows. Someone out there sent me that message.
And they're watching.
The SUV door slams shut behind me, and for the first time all morning, the flashes are gone. No cameras. No microphones. Just the low hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of my own uneven breathing.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to force the panic down. But it won't. It clings, sticky and hot, wrapping around my throat.
Carlos slides in across from me, silent. Always silent. His dark eyes track me the way you'd watch a storm rolling over open water — not alarmed, just… waiting. Measuring.
I turn my face toward the tinted window, pretending not to notice, but the pressure builds until I can't stand it.
"They asked about my mother," I whisper. "In front of everyone. They called her his mistress."
Carlos doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. "And?"
"And?" I snap, whipping toward him. "Do you have any idea what that feels like? To be ripped apart in front of the world, like I don't belong here? Like I never will?"
His gaze holds steady. Calm. Infuriatingly calm. "It only matters if you believe them."
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste iron. "You're impossible."
A ghost of a smile flickers at his mouth. "And you're still breathing. Which means you're stronger than you think."
I hate that his words steady me, even a little. Hate it more that I need them.
By the time we reach JFK, my panic has dulled into a low simmer. The SUV pulls up to the arrivals lane, and I spot her instantly — Linda, wrestling a carry-on bag twice her size, hair slightly frizzed from the flight but grinning like she just won the lottery.
She sees me through the window, waves so hard she nearly topples over. Typical. I step out before Carlos can open the door for me. "Linda!"
She barrels into me, squeezing tight. "CEO Sterling in the flesh. God, you look terrifyingly expensive."
"Shut up," I laugh, hugging her back.
Then she notices Carlos standing a few feet away, silent and sharp in his dark suit, scanning the crowd like he owns it.
Her eyebrows shoot up. She leans close, stage-whispering in my ear. "Um, wow. You didn't tell me your shadow was hot."
I elbow her lightly. "Don't start."
"What? I'm just saying, if that's what corporate security looks like, sign me up for a hostile takeover."
"Linda—"
She grins wickedly as I finally step back and introduce them. "Carlos, this is my best friend, Linda. Linda, Carlos."
Carlos gives her a curt nod, expression unreadable, already scanning the sidewalk again. Linda waits until he looks away, then mouths at me "wooff Daddy vibes."
I choke on a laugh, shoving her bag into her arms. She smirks, victorious. And just like that, for the first time in days, I don't feel completely alone.