TWENTY FIVE

TWENTY FIVE
Nic had held Sophie in his arms. For a moment, he’d just stared. Long and hard. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. As if they were ghosts—too fragile, too impossible to be real.

But Isabelle hadn’t missed the flicker of something else in his eyes. Confusion, disbelief… and suspicion.

And just like that, the old wounds reopened.

All the doubts and misgivings she’d tried to bury surged back with a vengeance. Had she been a fool to come here? Had he only chased her to soothe his ego, and when she refused, had he gone straight back to the woman who had always been available? Her heart thundered with disbelief, and maybe even betrayal—not because of what she’d seen, but because Nic had let her see it. As if it meant nothing.

And worse, he hadn’t even tried to explain. When she had asked if they could speak alone in his study.

Instead, he’d met her glare with that infuriating, unreadable calm—the kind only a man like Nic could wear so arrogantly. His voice had been low, flat, like he was already bored with the conversation.

“It’s none of your business.”

Those five words had snapped whatever thread of patience Isabelle had been holding onto.

None of her business?

He’d blinked then, as if still wrapping his head around the fact that she was truly standing there, in his house, after all these years. But she saw it—the shift in his expression, the doubt, the calculation. Like he wasn’t sure why she had come back. Or if she would stay.

And then the fight had exploded.

“Her father is my business partner,” he’d snapped, his tone clipped and annoyed. “Her grandfather was my father’s friend. What exactly do you expect me to do—cut her off completely? That’s absurd.”

She’d looked at him, hurt written plain across her face.

“And you think this is appropriate?” she’d asked bitterly. “Lunches alone with your ex-fiancée?”

He’d looked at her like she was the one being irrational.

“You are my wife,” he said sharply, his proud chin lifting as if that declaration ended the conversation. Suddenly, she blinked—her breath catching, the anger slowly draining from her limbs. He’d said it so casually, so possessively: "You are my wife." And the words echoed louder in her head than she cared to admit.

Yes. She was.

It wasn’t the title that soothed her fury—it was the memory it stirred.

Of him in her bed, just nights ago. His body taut above hers, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with something too raw to name as he’d spilled into her, clutching her like a man possessed.

If Daphne still meant anything—if she’d ever held any real power over him—he would have been with her long ago. God knew he had every right. They’d been engaged. They had history.

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t touched her.

And suddenly, all this—the argument seemed stupid. This whole conversation sounded stupid.

Daphne had knocked and entered the study right then and Isabelle had felt even more frustrated that the woman thought she could nose in on private conversations. “I am sorry.” She had send a tight apologetic smile towards Idsbelle before santuring towards Nic. “Can I talk you for a second alone?” Isabelle had left before she had been asked, nager once again flaring inside of her, banging the door close behind her. But barely a few minutes later Nic had reappered by her side, pulling her by her arm so she was looking at him. His face angry. “Never. Never turn around and leave me like that again! Damn you!”He had looked furious.

“Why I thought you would be busy talking to your fiancée-” He had gotten even more angry at that. “Doesn’t matter whom I am speaking to. You are never to turn your back on me again and leave! Understand?” And then he had kissed her, not soft and plinat, but a full on possessive kiss that continued until they were both out of breath. “I gynaíka mou. I dikí mou gynaíka. Den tha me afíseis poté xaná.” He had wishepred that rapidly in greek, as his hands had clasped her’s in a very tight grasp. And Isabelle had been in a daze that she couldn’t quite snap out of. Because he didn’t know, he never knew that she had learned English, that she could understand what he had just said, without actually letting her know.“My. Wife. My woman. You are never leaving me again.”

“Now you’re going to stay here and wait for me like a good little wife. Understand?” he hissed, voice low and cutting, inches from her face. “So I can go and deal with Daphne. In peace.”

The words sliced through her like a blade, and rage surged up her throat like lava. Her fists clenched at her sides. “Why are you doing this?” she snapped, breathless with fury. “If you still want her, why drag me here at all? You can have your peace—and her—with it!”

Her voice rose, sharp and shaking. “You want peace? You’ll get it—after I leave you again!”

Five minutes. That’s all it had taken. Five damn minutes inside this house and she was back to being a jealous, shouting mess. Like some green, naïve nineteen-year-old all over again, screaming across the hallway like a fool. The realization made her stomach twist, shame and frustration bubbling just beneath her skin. What is wrong with me? she thought bitterly. Am I an undiagnosed masochist for coming back here?

Nic had made it halfway to the door when he stopped, turned, and looked at her—really looked at her. His expression was unreadable for a moment, something cold and calculating shifting behind his eyes. Then, slowly, his gaze slid to Sophie, who sat on the floor, giggling at her game, oblivious to the storm raging around her.

“Right,” he said with sudden clarity, voice steel-edged. “I’ll take that as collateral.”

And before Isabelle could move, he was scooping their daughter into his arms.

“Daddy! My game!” Sophie whined, squirming.

“Daddy has something important to take care of, angel. You can play later, hmm?” he murmured gently, pressing a kiss to her head. But his eyes were locked on Isabelle’s the whole time—challenging, daring her to react.

She stared, stunned. He wouldn’t. But he already had.

With their daughter tucked against his chest, he walked toward the door, pausing just long enough to throw a final blow over his shoulder.

“Just in case,” he said, arching a brow at her “you want to leave.”—like it was perfectly reasonable to weaponize their child for the sake of control.

And then he was gone.

She stormed after him, anger crackling under her skin like static. But before she could get a word in, the study door slammed shut in her face—locked. Isabelle stared at the polished wood in disbelief, then banged her fist against it once, twice.

From the narrow glass window beside the door, she saw Sophie perched comfortably in Nic’s lap, both of them watching her with identical smirks. Her daughter giggled, thoroughly entertained by her mother’s dramatic foot-stomping protest. Nic raised a brow, amused, while Isabelle stood fuming in the hallway, seething with the injustice of it all.

Inside, she could hear Daphne’s voice—sharp, heated, unmistakably angry. But Nic’s voice… never came. That silence stung more than it should have. He shouted at her, argued, roared like thunder in every disagreement. But with Daphne? Not a sound. It was almost worse than hearing him shout. It was restraint. It was control. It was… different.

Five minutes later, the door finally opened.

Nic emerged, cool and collected, Sophie still nestled in his arms. Behind him trailed Daphne—quiet, composed, almost ghostlike. She didn’t speak, didn’t slam the door or throw a final insult. Instead, Theodor opened the main entrance for her, and she walked out with a calm that made Isabelle’s heart ache unexpectedly.

Daphne wasn’t crying. There was no dramatics, no desperation. But her eyes… God, her eyes. They held something raw and hollow, a haunting sadness that lingered like a bruise in the air. A quiet kind of grief. One Isabelle wasn’t prepared for.

She watched as Daphne paused at the threshold, just for a heartbeat. Her gaze swept over Nic—standing like stone, unmoving—and then fell away. No words. No goodbye. Just that bleak, soul-deep look before she disappeared through the door.

She didn’t have time to dwell on Daphne’s haunting exit—because that was only the beginning.

The rest of the day unfolded like a slow, calculated ambush. She was barely beginning to settle when she noticed three men in black suits standing silently in the foyer. Nic stood before them, issuing clipped instructions, his posture commanding and composed.

“Your bodyguards,” he told her casually, as if he were announcing the arrival of a cake tray.

Isabelle blinked. “What?” she croaked, her voice hoarse with disbelief.

“They’re here to ensure you and Sophie are safe at all times.” He turned back to the men with a solemn nod. “You’ll be briefed on their schedules later.”

She stood frozen as they quietly filed out of the room, but before she could gather her thoughts, another man entered.

“This is your personal chauffeur,” Nic said. “He’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”

That was it. Her limit.

Without a word, Isabelle rose abruptly and left the room. She didn’t trust herself to speak in front of so many people. Panic was slowly creeping into her chest, wrapping around her lungs like a steel band. She couldn’t understand what the hell he was doing—no, steamrolling her with.

But deep down, she did understand.

It all clicked into place when she heard Nic’s voice again—speaking in Greek, low and commanding. What he didn’t know was that she could understand every word.

“I want your eyes on her at all times,” he told the chauffeur coldly. “Whenever she steps off the property. I want to know where she’s going, who she’s meeting, what she’s doing. Every step. Understood?”

The man nodded with brisk obedience.

And Isabelle just stood there, her heart hammering in her chest, her throat dry as sand. Shame and fury burned beneath her skin.

She had almost forgotten.

Almost.

But he hadn’t—not for a single second.

The bodyguards, the chauffeur, the tight control—none of it was for protection. It wasn’t about keeping her safe.

It was about surveillance. It was about control. It was about her.

The woman he still believed was a cheating, lying bitch.

The woman he thought would sleep with any man who so much as looked at her.