Chapter 28: TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER 27

But he had dismissed all her protests, every shred of hesitation or suspicion she had brought with her—and taken her right there, in the guest bedroom, against the soft, yielding headboard. By the time he was done, her doubts had been stripped away as easily as her clothes, until there was nothing left but heat, sweat, and surrender.

“See? It’s not that hard to be my wife, is it, matia mou?” he had murmured arrogantly, a smirk playing on his lips as he coaxed a third climax out of her, before finally driving into her with a deep, possessive thrust and taking his own pleasure.

“No matter where you went, or who you ran to... your body still remembers me.”

That comment cut deeper than he realized. She stiffened instinctively, the warmth between them evaporating into silence. He must have noticed, because his arms—still wrapped tightly around her—tensed, and his voice came again, this time edged with something darker.

“Why are you always so touchy? So sensitive about your past?” he asked, not kindly. “Why hide from it now, when you so publicly opened your legs for another man?”

The words hit like a slap.

So she gave one back—hard across his cheek, the sound echoing in the room. The imprint of her palm bloomed red on his face.

She braced herself. For rage. For shouting. For retaliation.

But none came.

He didn’t even loosen his grip around her waist. Just stared at her with those impenetrable, dark eyes, as if watching her unravel was some kind of puzzle he needed to solve.

“Nothing to say?” he asked eventually, his tone almost mocking, daring her to lash out again.

“Let me go.” Her voice was low, steady. A quiet demand.

He didn’t budge. “No. That’s one thing that’s not happening again. Me—letting you go.”

But he did let her go.

By morning, he was gone—from the bed, and from the house.

When she asked the housekeeper where he'd gone, she was met with a polite but sealed mouth. No one would tell her anything. She would’ve assumed he had gone to the office—except his laptop, tablet, and work phone all remained untouched in his study.

Sophie had woken around eight, rubbing sleep from her eyes and instantly asking, “Where’s Daddy?”

He returned by lunchtime, breezing in with all smiles and sunshine, as if nothing had happened. He kissed Isabelle lightly on the forehead and went straight out into the garden to play with Sophie, laughing and swinging her by the arms.

When Isabelle followed him out, her question came as naturally as breathing.

“Where were you this morning?”

He didn’t even blink. “Just some work.”

The housekeeper approached her quietly not long after. “What would you like for lunch, kyria?”

Isabelle glanced at the sky—soft blue, scattered clouds, warm breeze. “Actually… don’t cook anything. I thought maybe we’d go out for lunch.”

Before she could even finish the sentence, Nic’s demeanor shifted.

He stepped forward with a quick shake of his head. “Matia mou, Evey can make anything you like. Chinese, Indian, Italian—she’s trained for that.” His voice was firm, final.

She hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden resistance.

“I just thought it would be nice to eat out. It’s good weather—”

He looked up at the sky, then back at her.

“No.  I think It’ll rain soon. Better if we eat in.”

Isabelle had frowned—there hadn’t been a single cloud in the sky.

But halfway through lunch, one of Nic’s security personnel burst into the room, moving with urgency. He leaned in and whispered something into Nic’s ear. Isabelle noticed the way Nic suddenly stiffened, his eyes widening like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Are you sure?” he asked in Greek, his voice low but tense.

The man nodded. “Positive.”

Without another word, Nic pushed back his chair and stood. His movements were sharp, frantic, as if time had started slipping through his fingers and he needed to chase it down.

“An important business call,” he told her in a clipped voice, already walking toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”

But then—just before he left—he stopped. Turned.

And stared.

His eyes locked onto hers, something strange and unsettling in them. A grim kind of resolve. He looked at her the way a doctor might look at a patient before delivering unbearable news—prepared for the backlash, but convinced it’s for their own good.

Isabelle's pulse ticked faster. She didn’t understand. He stared for another beat, then turned and left.

Nearly an hour passed before he returned.

And when he did, he looked worse than before—his face pale, drawn tight, his shoulders heavy with whatever burden he now carried. There was something hollow in his eyes, a darkness that hadn't been there before.

The first thing he did was search for her.

But he didn’t come to her.

Instead, he found Sophie in her playpen, lifted her gently into his arms, and kissed her forehead with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.

Then he turned to look at Isabelle.

Their eyes met.

He opened his mouth, as if about to say something important—something urgent.

But just then, Sophie tugged at his tie, giggling.

He glanced down at her, his expression shifting, softening for a moment.

And when he looked back at Isabelle again, the moment was gone. Whatever words had almost been spoken were swallowed, locked back behind clenched teeth. He turned away, silent.

And Isabelle was left with a strange weight in her chest, as if something had just slipped past her—something important.

Isabelle was beginning to find Nic’s behavior increasingly strange—and worrisome.

“What’s wrong?” she asked more than once throughout the day.

But all he offered was a vague reply.

“Work problem. I’ll be gone tonight. Don’t wait up.”

He said it like he wasn’t entirely sure he was doing the right thing, his voice distant, uncertain.

“Nic?” she tried again, reaching for him.

He only shook his head and looked at her with such intensity it made her feel like he thought she might disappear if he blinked.

“It will be fine,” he murmured in Greek. “All will be fine.”

Then he kissed her—deep and desperate, like a man clinging to something he was afraid to lose.

The rest of the day, he shut himself away in his study, handling phone calls with a level of urgency she hadn’t seen in years. He emerged only once, after she had a strange encounter with one of the maids.

Her phone hadn’t had internet all day. When she asked about it, the maid gave her a stiff smile and shook her head.

“No internet,” she said simply.

“Is something wrong with the Wi-Fi? If so, how is Nic working?” Isabelle pressed.

The maid looked startled—like a deer caught in headlights—until one of the suited bodyguards stepped forward.

“Apologies, ma’am. Repairs are underway. The Wi-Fi will be down for a while.”

Isabelle sighed, turning back to watch her daughter, who sat nearby trying to build a card house with wobbly hands—something Nic had taught her earlier that morning.

“Then at least get me today’s newspaper,” she asked the maid.

But the woman only stood there, shaking her head again.

“No newspaper today.”

“Seriously?” Isabelle narrowed her eyes, suddenly convinced that Callista’s staff were up to their usual tricks.

“Never mind. I’ll ask Nic myself.”

She walked toward his study, where he stood by the window, speaking into his phone, his expression dark and tense. When he noticed her enter, his brow furrowed immediately.

“What is it?”

“Nothing urgent,” she replied. “I just wanted something to read. Your staff says there’s no internet, no newspapers or magazines. But you always subscribe to the business dailies and international magazines. Where are they?”

She glanced over his cluttered desk, stacks of papers scattered like leaves in a storm. Everything looked disordered, anxious—just like him.

“Never mind,” she said quietly, backing out when she saw how absorbed he was in the call.

That evening, at last, he emerged from his self-imposed war room. He helped her bathe and dress Sophie for bed, even sat on the floor to let her braid his hair with a ribbon, laughing when she pulled too tight.

As they tucked Sophie in, he kissed her forehead tenderly.

“Happy, sweetheart?” he asked.

She nodded enthusiastically, eyes bright.

“We’re going to stay together now, right Papa? You, me, and Mummy?”

Isabelle’s heart squeezed painfully in her chest.

Nic didn’t hesitate.

“Of course, mi principessa.” He kissed her again and looked at Isabelle, something quiet but thunderous flickering behind his gaze.

“You and your mommy are staying with me. Always.”

And somehow, after that, his intensity only grew. Like he had made a decision and now had to race against time to carry it out—before something, or someone, stopped him.