CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FIVE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FIVE
Moonlight lustered across the private rooftop sundeck, painting the megacity's skyline in tableware and shadow. Isabella stood at the wrought-iron rail, the wind tugging gently at her groaner's hair. Her fritters still carried the faint scent of roses, red petals pressed between the runners of the letter she gripped. Below, the thoroughfares hummed with late-night business, but over then, the world felt suspended — waiting.

Christian surfaced from the doorway, his altitudinous frame outlined against the warm gleam of the stairwell. He wore a crisp white shirt untucked at the midriff, sleeves rolled to the elbow. The soft line of his jaw was softened by stubble, and his dark eyes held a tired gentleness. He crossed the sundeck in long strides and reached for her hand, his cufflinks glinting like distant stars. "Bella," he said, voice low, "your contract in London starts hereafter morning. However, you'll miss the press calls, but if you stay, you risk noway knowing what Victoria is planning next If you leave tonight."

Isabella drew in a breath, her heart fluttering like the strings of her violin before a performance. In New York, every road corner held a memory of the first time she heard Christian's piano beside her in Central Park, the late nights rehearsing in confined workrooms, the moment she first stood center stage at Carnegie Hall, her bow pulsing with stopgap and fear. Yet London promised answers to the retired tally, the substantiation who had prayed her to come, the last communication from Victoria's operatives staying in a Mayfair safe house. The weight of each possibility pressed against her caricatures.

Christian stepped closer, lifting her chin with a gentle cutlet. His own struggle showed in the faint earthquake of his hand; he, who had learned every concerto, now stressed this choice further than any musicale. "Isabella," he muttered, "I love you further than this megacity. You erected your life then. But I've seen how she hunts you — how she strikes when you suppose you're safe. Whatever you decide, I'm with you."

Gashes gouged at her eyelashes as she searched his face. He'd thrown himself into her battles, had staved off fear attacks in the bodies, and held her hand through every courtroom storm. Now, at the crossroads, she realized that she couldn't face London alone — or New York without him. Her fritters tensed around his. " also, we go together," she rumored.

Christian's lips twisted into a tired smile. He cupped her face, thumbs brushing the bends of her cheekbones. " Together," he echoed, sealing their implied oath under the vigilant megacity lights.

An electric hush fell over the vented-out musical hall as Isabella stepped into the limelight. The grand piano's black lacquer reflected her slim figure and the ivory keys awaited like a pledge. She wore a deep emerald gown that hugged her slender frame, its silk skirt pooling around her ankles. Christian sat at the piano bench beside her, back straight, hands poised over the keys. His aspect met hers — steady, reassuring — ahead he turned to begin.

The opening passions gurgled into the silence a haunting adagio that quivered with craving. Isabella raised her violin, the arc poised like a twinkle, and drew it across the strings. The notes bloomed, warm and reverberative, carrying every pang she'd felt — the treason, the legal battles, the insomniac nights. Shutterbugs in the gallery clicked shutters, but Isabella sounded ignorant of anything beyond the raw emotion pouring from her fingertips.

Christian's incident wove around her air, his piano passions firm and compassionate, a bedrock beneath her soaring lines. As the piece erected toward its top, Isabella pictured the narrow alleyways of Mayfair, the tally staying in an envelope, her mama's anxious eyes, and Christian's unvarying support. Each expression came as an act of defiance.

When the final note faded, the hall remained suspended in breathless admiration. Also, as if summoned by the music's intensity, a single limelight illuminated the piano's lustrous face — and there, resting atop the keys, lay a sanguine rose. Its petals were identical to those Victoria had worn at the final fete. A ripple of astonishment spread through the followership, an unmistakable communication that the battle was far from over.

Isabella's heart thundered. The rose felt like a challenge, delivered with elegant atrocity. She didn't need evidence to know whose hand had placed it there. Christian closed the piano lid with a soft click and rose, his expression undecipherable for a twinkle. Also, he crossed to her, bowed slightly as though to gesture her triumph. The acclamation began — laggardly at first, also sonorous, a tidal surge of blessing and relief.

Still holding the rose, Isabella allowed herself a moment of triumph, her violin pressed against her shoulder like an amulet. Yet beneath the applause, her mind contended London awaited, and Victoria's reach stretched further than she had known. She lifted her chin, letting the applause marshland over her, and let out the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

Backstage, the dressing room air smelled of roses and sweat and triumph. Isabella sat at the vanity, removing her earrings, while Christian leaned against the doorframe, envelope and airplane ticket in hand. The rose lay on the counter between them, its petals still pictorial against the white marble.

She picked up the ticket — London at first light. Her fritters traced the destination, London City. Despite the prostration in her bones, expectation stirred. Christian crossed the room and slipped an arm around her midriff, pulling her close. "You were magnificent," he muttered, voice tender against her observance. His other hand floated over the ticket. "What will it be?"

Isabella set down her earrings and looked up at him, her green eyes reflecting determination and fear. "I allowed it was over," she rumored, pressing the airplane ticket to her casket. "But it seems this is the coming verse of our story."

Christian's arms tensed. He brushed a kiss across her tabernacle, gentle and unvarying. " also, let's write it together."

She rose, slipping her hand into his. Together, they moved toward the exit, past the staying sidekicks and curious bystanders. As they stepped into the corridor, Isabella broke and glanced back at the rose — Victoria's hand challenge. It reminded her that every palm invited another battle.

But now, fortified with the verity and the man she loved by her side, she felt ready for whatever came next. She exhaled, a quiet protestation of resoluteness, and together, they walked into the staying lights of the hall, stepping bravely toward a new dawn — and a trip that would take them across the ocean and into the heart of Victoria's final secret.