Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN IN THE WHITE DRESS
Isabelle Renaud was not born Isabelle Renaud.
Her name was Claire Bellamy.
Her father, Andrew Bellamy, had been an accountant for Sebastian Cross.
Twenty-five years earlier, he discovered that Sebastian was laundering money through construction contracts while secretly stealing from Damian’s father.
Andrew threatened to expose him.
Three days later, Andrew disappeared.
His daughter was nine.
Sebastian found her before the police did.
He paid for her education.
Her apartment.
Her university.
Her new identity.
Then he spent twenty years teaching her whom to blame.
The Cross family.
Damian.
The empire.
By the time Isabelle met Damian, she had spent most of her life believing he was the son of the monster who destroyed her father.
She had expected to hate him.
That had been the first complication.
The second was falling in love with him.
Damian learned all of this from a box Victor retrieved from Isabelle’s apartment.
Photographs.
Letters.
A childhood diary.
And one unsent note.
Damian is not what Sebastian told me.
Another line:
I don’t know how to finish this without destroying him.
Elena read it.
“She was going to stop.”
“Or she wanted to believe she would.”
“You still love her?”
Damian stared toward the lake.
“I don’t know who ‘her’ is anymore.”
Two days later, Isabelle called.
Damian answered.
“Where are you?”
“I need to see you.”
“Tell me where.”
“Not you.”
His expression changed.
“Who?”
“Elena.”
Damian immediately refused.
But Elena overheard.
“I’ll go.”
“No.”
“She may know something about Sophie.”
“No.”
“You don’t own me.”
“This is not about ownership.”
“Then stop making decisions for me.”
They argued for ten minutes.
Elena won.
They met Isabelle inside an abandoned church in Evanston.
Damian’s men surrounded the block without Isabelle knowing.
Elena entered alone.
Isabelle sat in the front pew wearing jeans, boots and a dark coat.
Without the wedding gown, she looked younger.
More human.
More exhausted.
“You hate me,” Isabelle said.
“I don’t know you well enough.”
Isabelle almost smiled.
“That’s probably why Damian trusts you.”
“He doesn’t trust anyone.”
“He trusts you.”
Elena sat several feet away.
“Why did you ask for me?”
Isabelle’s expression changed.
“Because Sebastian knows where Sophie is.”
Elena stopped breathing.
“How?”
“He put a tracker inside the rabbit.”
Buttons.
Elena’s blood ran cold.
Sophie had carried it everywhere.
Isabelle leaned forward.
“You need to destroy it.”
“Why are you helping us?”
“Because this was never supposed to involve a child.”
“But poisoning Damian was fine?”
Pain crossed Isabelle’s face.
“No.”
“You did it.”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t ask me to feel sorry for you.”
“I’m not.”
For the first time, Isabelle looked honest.
“I’m asking you to keep Sophie alive.”
Elena stood.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Sebastian killed Damian’s mother.”
“We know.”
Isabelle blinked.
“And he killed my father.”
Elena stopped.
“I found out yesterday.”
Sebastian had lied to everyone.
To Damian.
To Isabelle.
To Victor.
He had created enemies and then positioned himself as their protector.
“He needs Damian dead,” Isabelle said, “because Maria left something behind.”
“What?”
“A ledger.”
Damian’s mother had secretly documented Sebastian’s network of bribery and blackmail.
Judges.
Politicians.
Police officers.
Businessmen.
Everything.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“But Sebastian thinks Damian does?”
“Yes.”
A sound came from the back of the church.
Isabelle froze.
“Get down!”
The stained-glass window exploded.
Elena dropped behind the pew.
Damian’s men rushed inside.
Isabelle grabbed Elena and pulled her toward the floor as another shot shattered wood above them.
Seconds later Damian burst through the side door.
He saw Isabelle covering Elena with her own body.
Their eyes met.
For one heartbeat, bride and groom stared at each other across the ruins of what they had almost become.
Then Isabelle whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
Damian said nothing.
Because some apologies arrive too late to restore what they broke.
May you like
But sometimes they arrive just in time to save what remains.
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