Chapter 2: Ghost of a Plan
The oppressive silence of the room was broken by the persistent buzz of her phone. The screen glowed in the twilight of the unfamiliar space another message from Lena. This time, instead of texting, Isadora felt a desperate need to hear a friendly voice. She tapped the call button and brought the phone to her ear.
It was picked up on the first ring. "What do you mean, busy?" Lena's voice was a whip-crack of indignation, all traces of sleep gone. "Huh? He wasn't even there to pick you up? Who does he think he is? He should be on his knees thanking the universe he gets to be in the same room as you!"
A wave of warmth washed over Isadora, so potent it momentarily dissolved the cold knot of anxiety in her stomach. The sharp, protective anger in Lena's tone was a balm. In that instant, the lingering pain of her father's dismissal, the sting of Cynthia's barbs, and the profound humiliation of Sebastian's indifference simply vanished. After her grandfather's passing, and a childhood defined by the absence of a mother and the sharp, unpredictable backhands from her father punishment for both her failures and, cruelly, her successes Lena was her anchor. The one person who saw her.
She swiped at a traitorous tear that escaped the corner of her eye. "Come on, girl, you know me," Isadora said, her voice softer than she intended. "I'm glad he's not paying me any attention. Can you imagine the alternative?" She drew her knees up to her chest on the massive bed, making herself small. "If he wanted a full-time wife… I don't know how I'd manage to make my own money, work my shifts, and still focus on school. You know I love working at the restaurant with you. This… this distance is a good thing."
On the other end of the line, Lena listened to the pragmatic shield her friend had erected. It made a brutal kind of sense. She nodded slowly, a mannerism so ingrained she did it even though Isadora couldn't see. "You're right," she conceded, the fire in her voice banked to embers. "But it was still wrong. If he agreed to this, he should have had the decency to be there himself. He shouldn't have treated you like a piece of forgotten luggage."
Isadora sighed, the sound weary in the quiet room. "I don't think he had any more choice in this than I did." The truth of that statement settled between them, a shared burden. "So, really, it's for the best."
"Okay, fine. So, how's the house?" Lena asked, shifting the subject with practiced ease. "Is it as obnoxiously grand as the Anderson estate?"
Isadora's gaze swept over the room the tasteful grey walls, the plush carpet that felt like walking on moss, the wall of windows now showing a blanket of black sky. "Yeah," she answered, her voice lazy and uninterested. "It's better. Colder, though. Everything is very… perfect."
Lena could hear the profound disinterest, the emotional exhaustion. And she understood. As long as her friend was far from the Anderson estate, any roof was a good one. "So, what's the plan now?" Lena pressed gently. "Are you still going to try and talk to him? Lay out your 'separate lives' agreement and plan the divorce for later?"
The image of Sebastian Walker at the dinner table flashed in Isadora's mind his focused posture, the way his eyes never wavered from his tablet, his utter lack of acknowledgment of her presence. The message had been received, loud and clear. Talking to him wasn't a strategy; it was an intrusion.
"No," Isadora said, the decision solidifying as she spoke. "Talking to him won't work. I think… I think the best thing is to live here like I don't exist. Stay out of his way. Be a ghost in his gilded cage. Maybe if I'm quiet enough, he'll forget I'm even here in the first place."
Lena was quiet for a moment, considering. "The ghost strategy. It's not the worst idea. Just… be careful, Isa. Don't disappear so much that you forget how to be seen."
"I will be," Isadora promised. "It's getting late. We have class in the morning."
After a final exchange of goodnights, the call ended. The silence rushed back in, but it felt less menacing now, insulated by the certainty of her plan. The adrenaline of the day had finally drained away, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness. The thought of undressing, of facing a shower in the cavernous en-suite bathroom, felt like a Herculean task.
Instead, she simply toed off her shoes, letting them drop to the floor with two soft thuds. Still in the clothes she had worn for her exile, she slid under the duvet. The mattress embraced her, soft yet supportive, the sheets cool and smooth against her skin. For the first time all day, her body unclenched. Her mind, no longer racing through scenarios of fear and confrontation, simply stilled. The profound safety and comfort of the bed were a physical reprieve, and she fell into a deep, immediate sleep, her breathing evening out into the quiet rhythm of exhaustion.
Hours later, deep in the womb of the night, a sliver of light cut across the dark room.
The door slid open with a silence that spoke of perfect engineering and immense weight. A tall, broad-shouldered shadow filled the doorway, backlit by the faint hallway sconces.
Sebastian Walker stood there, his day's work finally complete. He had come to verify the presence of the variable now inserted into his meticulously controlled life. His gaze swept past the room's impersonal perfection and landed on the bed.
There, he saw not the ambitious socialite or the grieving heiress he had expected, but a mere slip of a woman, drowned in the vastness of the linens. One arm was flung above her head, her dark hair a chaotic splash across the pillow. She still wore the jeans and simple shirt from earlier. A single shoe lay abandoned on its side near the foot of the bed.
He didn't move, didn't make a sound. For several long minutes, he simply observed. This was the person his grandfather had bound his future to? She looked young. Vulnerable. And her strategy of complete avoidance, overheard in his foyer despite her hushed tones, was either cowardly or brilliantly pragmatic. He hadn't decided which.
His analytical mind, which had spent the evening deconstructing merger proposals, now deconstructed her. There was no threat here. Not yet. Only a complication to be managed.
As silently as he had arrived, he retreated. The door slid shut, erasing the line of light and plunging the room back into absolute darkness. His footsteps, soft on the hallway runner, faded away, leaving no evidence of his nocturnal inspection but the lingering, unspoken question hanging in the air.