The Return of Isabella
Rain drummed against the glass walls of the boardroom, soft but relentless, like the sound of nerves fraying. The last meeting of the day had just ended, yet Ethan hadn't moved from his chair.
Across the table, Clara closed her notebook. "You've been staring at those numbers for fifteen minutes."
He didn't answer. His jaw tightened—something cold flickering in his eyes.
Before she could speak again, the door opened.
A woman stood there, slender, poised, her heels silent on the marble floor. She carried herself with the ease of someone who had once belonged in this world.
Clara straightened, polite. "Can I help you?"
The woman's lips curved. "You already have, darling. You married him."
Ethan's breath caught. "Isabella."
The name slid through the air like a ghost returning home.
---
Later, in his office, the tension was thick enough to cut. Clara stood near the desk, her hands trembling around a file she wasn't reading.
"You didn't tell me she existed," she said quietly.
"I thought she was gone," Ethan replied, voice rough. "She left years ago."
Isabella's laughter drifted from the hallway—a sound of history and heartbreak. She was talking to Damien, who looked utterly delighted by the drama he'd just walked into.
"So," Damien said when he slipped inside, "should I order popcorn or security?"
"Neither," Ethan muttered.
Clara forced a smile. "Popcorn sounds good."
Her voice was light, but inside, something fragile cracked.
---
That evening, at the mansion, the confusion only grew. Eleanor—technically their aunt but always called "Mother"—was waiting in the foyer.
"You look pale, Ethan," she said. "Work again?"
"Something like that."
Mandaline Blackwood, their real mother, descended the stairs. Her presence was softer, almost ghostly, years of distance written in every graceful line of her face.
"Ethan," she murmured, "I heard an old friend returned."
He looked at her sharply. "You knew?"
"I knew she'd come back eventually. The past never stays buried."
Clara felt suddenly invisible—an outsider in her own home.
---
Hours later, she sat alone in the study, staring at the rain. Ethan entered quietly.
"She wants to talk," he said.
"Then talk to her."
He froze. "Clara—"
She stood, her smile too calm. "You don't owe me an explanation. It's clear she meant something to you."
"That was years ago."
"Then why does she still make you look like that?"
Ethan said nothing. And silence, more than any confession, filled the room with ache.
---
Outside, Isabella watched through the half-open door, her eyes unreadable.
"Still the same, Ethan," she whispered to herself. "Always trying to protect everyone but yourself."
She turned away, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips.
The storm outside wasn't letting up—and neither was the one that had just begun between them.