THIRTY TWO

THIRTY TWO
Chapter 32

Isabelle shut her eyes, willing the tears not to fall.
Don’t cry, she told herself. Don’t give him that. Don’t humiliate yourself more than he already has.

She bit down hard on her lower lip until she tasted blood. Her silence screamed louder than any words could. And still, he just stood there—watching her, as if waiting for her to unravel. As if daring her to. “So tell me,” Isabelle said, her voice low and shaking. “Why did you bring me here, Nic? Was it just for Sophie?”

He didn’t answer. He stood there, his eyes bleak and empty, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. The silence between them stretched like a noose.

“This isn’t the right time for this discussion,” he said finally, his voice controlled, calculated. “You should go back to the island.” Her blood surged, red-hot fury finally spilling over.

“Why?” she snapped. “Because your fiancée’s still here? Is she about to come downstairs—fresh from your bed? Is that it?” His gaze flicked away for the first time, calm now—too calm, like her anger finally gave him a familiar script to work from. This version of her, the one screaming, he could handle. He’d seen her like this before. And maybe, deep down, he preferred her this way.

“None of your business,” he replied, each word clipped and cold. It was like arguing with marble. No emotion. No cracks. Just smooth, impenetrable stone.

And she saw it clearly then—the truth she had been trying not to see. The man who had held her hand on the island, who spoke gently to their daughter, who kissed her like he remembered how to love—he never existed. It had all been an act. A performance. Carefully choreographed to lull her into lowering her defences.

To trap her.

Before she could say another word, soft footsteps echoed through the hall.

Sophie.

Wobbly on her feet, pale but awake, she padded into the room—still in her pink pyjamas that Isabelle had put her into the hospital.  Her wide eyes flicked between them. “Papa…”

Nic moved toward her instantly. He scooped her up, pressed a kiss to her temple, and whispered something soft and lilting in Greek—too low for Isabelle to catch.

Then he turned, called for a maid. When the woman appeared at the door, he handed Sophie over without hesitation.

“Take her to her room,” he said quietly.

Sophie didn’t protest. But as she was carried away, she looked back over the maid’s shoulder—eyes darting between her parents, her small face wrinkled in confusion and worry.

The silence that followed felt like a gaping wound.

“Tell me,” Isabelle snapped, her voice raw, cracked from fury and disbelief, “does she know you were still sleeping with me up until two nights ago?” The words echoed in the vast ballroom, harsh and jagged, as if the walls themselves recoiled from the truth.

Nic didn’t flinch. He didn’t wince. He didn’t even blink.

“Again,” he said coolly, “it’s not any of your business. But yes—she knows about you.” For a second, Isabelle could only stare at him. Then she laughed. A sharp, bitter sound, so hollow it scraped her throat. “And she still said yes? Still wants to marry you?”

He shrugged, as if her pain was a weather report. “She knows you’re in my life. And Sophie. She understands the situation.” Understand? Understand?

Isabelle felt like she’d stumbled into some twisted theatre production—one where the script had been written by a sociopath and her part was the tragic fool. And then, as if he hadn’t just detonated her world, Nic added with that maddening calm, “Now, you should return to the island. With Sophie. It’s the best thing for her.”

The way he said it—measured, cold, final—shattered something inside her. As if this was all some logistical inconvenience. As if she hadn’t just been humiliated. Lied to. Manipulated. As if her existence was something to manage.

“I’ll be back by the weekend,” he added.

And that did it.

“I’d rather you hand me the divorce papers now,” she hissed, stepping forward, eyes blazing. “I’ll sign them. And we’ll be done.”

Her voice cracked at the end, but she didn’t care. Not anymore.

Now she saw it all. The reason behind the mysteriously missing Wi-Fi. The lack of newspapers. That sudden ‘holiday’ to a remote island in the middle of nowhere. It was all so meticulously planned. So calculated.

He had never intended for her to find out—not until it was too late. Not until he’d made sure she couldn’t stop him. Not until he had trapped her—with Sophie.

And just like that, she knew she was right.

Because Nic said nothing.

For a long moment, he just stared at her. Not with guilt. Not even with anger. Just… silence. And then, slowly, he bent down, opened the drawer behind his desk, and pulled out a thin folder.

He slid it across the table, the sound of paper against polished wood impossibly loud.

Her heart stopped.

“What is that?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“The papers,” Nic said, his voice low and raspy, “are for me to file for sole custody.”

Isabelle froze.

“I will not lose my daughter again,” he continued, his words slow and merciless. “She belongs with me. Here. In Greece. You’re free to leave whenever you want… but my child stays.” The words hit her like a blunt-force blow to the chest.

Sole custody. Her knees buckled slightly, and for a second, she truly forgot how to breathe.

“You… you said…” Her voice cracked and splintered, her thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm. “You promised me you wouldn’t do this. You said Sophie would hate you if you took her from me. You told me that—”

The words tumbled out in a desperate rush, barely coherent, her pain clinging to every syllable.

But he didn’t flinch.            

Of course he didn’t.

Because Nic—this version of Nic—was no longer pretending to care. The man who once kissed her forehead under the Kalónera sun, who once spun Sophie in the air and made her laugh like nothing else in the world… he had vanished.

Gone. Like none of it had ever been real.

Nic turned his back to her again. He stood there at the window, the morning light throwing sharp angles across his face, still wearing the rumpled black tuxedo from the night before, nursing a half-drunk glass of scotch like it was just another ordinary day.

“I am her mother,” Isabelle hissed through clenched teeth. “You can’t win sole custody. No judge would grant that. No court would separate a child from her mother.” But even as she spoke, the tremble in her voice betrayed her. She wasn’t trying to convince him. She was trying to convince herself.

“Maybe not in the UK,” Nic said calmly, still not turning to face her. “But here in Greece… the Dimitriou name means something. Judges listen. And your long list of lovers over the years will make it quite clear you're not a fit mother.”

Isabelle froze, stunned for a moment—then a bitter laugh tore out of her throat, jagged and raw. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

“Lovers?” she whispered, almost incredulous. She had one lover, Nic. One. When she was eighteen. A stupid mistake she’ve been paying for ever since.”

She shook her head, that same sad, stunned smile on her lips. “God, I don’t know how many times I’ll have to face this version of you—this cold, ruthless, calculated man—before I finally stop believing in the lie of who you pretend to be.”

“I never lied to you,” he said matter-of-factly. “You can still be in my life. You're the mother of my child. Sophia obviously still needs you. And,”—he shrugged, casually, cruelly—“as you’ve probably figured out by now, I still enjoy having you in my bed.”

He said it like it meant nothing. Like she was just another comfort. Another convenience. “I always have,” he said, voice low and unhurried, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “You’re obviously… very talented in that area.”

His eyes flicked to her—just for a second—but the pointed glance was enough to slice right through her. A quiet, calculated humiliation. The kind that made your skin burn from the inside out.

Isabelle stood frozen, the shame crawling up her spine like fire.

He looked away again, too casual, too calm. “Daphne and I… never quite had that kind of spark. She understands, of course. That I have certain… needs. Needs she can’t fulfill.”

He took a slow sip, like he was discussing wine pairings, not her body.

“She knows I’ll take a mistress. Most men in our circle do. It’s just the way things are.”

The words felt like bile in her throat. But he wasn’t finished.

“Of course,” he added with a faint smirk, “we’ve both agreed it would be… inappropriate for you to stay in Athens. Too humiliating for her. Understandably so.”

That did it.

“How dare you,” Isabelle choked out, one hand gripping the back of a chair just to stay standing. Her knuckles whitened as fury and humiliation clashed inside her chest.

He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even look at her.

“I’m simply stating what makes sense for all of us,” he said with maddening indifference. “It wasn’t meant as an insult.”

He took another sip, then shrugged—as if this were all a boardroom negotiation.

“You excite me in bed. That’s just… fact.”

Her stomach turned.

“And Daphne doesn’t really want children,” he continued. “But you? You’ve always been good at that. You never had a problem getting pregnant.”

Her breath caught, horror blooming across her face.

“Maybe you and I can try again,” he said quietly. “This time for a boy. I’d like a few more children.”

Isabelle staggered back half a step, like he’d hit her. “Of course, their legitimacy will always be in question,” he said, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve like it was just another clause in a contract. “But Sophia—my legitimate heir—will inherit everything.”

He paused, swirling the scotch in his glass again. That slow, deliberate movement that made Isabelle’s skin crawl now.

“I’ll make sure you and the other children are taken care of. Lavish trust funds. Private schools. Staff. Homes. You’ll want for nothing.”

Nothing.

Except respect. Dignity. Love. A voice.

“I would have preferred you stayed on the island,” he added, as if discussing weather. “Clearly, isolation suits you better. But… I suppose it’s not to your taste.”

He finally glanced up at her, eyes cool and indifferent, as if her heartbreak bored him.

“Maybe a condo in Delphi. Or Olympia. Anywhere out of Athens would do.”

Isabelle’s whole body was trembling.

She wanted to slap him. To scream. To shatter every glass in the godforsaken house. But her limbs wouldn’t listen. Her hands hung limp at her sides, and her legs felt like they were rooted to the marble floor. She stood there, barely breathing, as the storm inside her roared against the stillness outside.

“How dare you?” He voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t look so indiginat Isszy, it’s still a better deal than the kind of life you had been living…the kind your mother had been living. You will still be my woman, mother of my children.” Somehow, even that sounded like a insult. And Isabelle had heard enough for the day. For her life. She had has enough and it seemed like he had too. Since he didn’t even turned to look as she fled the room.