Chapter 40: FOURTY

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41: The Trap Springs

The number burned in Isabelle's phone like a live wire.

She had stared at it for hours—through breakfast, through Sophie's nap, through the long afternoon shadows that crept across the marble floors. Her thumb hovered over the call button, trembling, retreating, hovering again.

What if this is a mistake?

What if Daphne is setting me up?

What if Nic finds out?

But then she thought of Sophie—of Nic's cold, unreadable eyes when he looked at their daughter. Of the way he spoke about her future as if Isabelle had no say in it. Of the quiet, creeping terror that one morning he would wake up, decide he'd had enough of his mistress-wife, and simply take her.

That fear was worse than any trap Daphne could set.

She pressed call.

The assistant who answered was crisp, professional, utterly unbothered by Isabelle's desperation. "Avvocato De Luca is fully booked today. The earliest appointment is Saturday at 10:30 AM at our office."

Isabelle's heart plummeted. Saturday was three days away—three days of Nic's surveillance, of his cold stares, of Daphne's triumphant smile on Instagram. She couldn't wait that long. She couldn't.

"Please," she said, hating the edge of pleading in her voice. "Is there no way to see him today? It's urgent. Life-or-death urgent."

A pause. The assistant's sigh was barely audible. "I'm sorry, signora. There's nothing I can—"

Two hours later, Isabelle's phone rang.

"Signora Isabelle?"

"Yes, speaking."

"Avvocato De Luca's lunch appointment just canceled. Since you were so insistent earlier... would you like the spot?"

Relief flooded through her so fast she nearly dropped the phone. "Yes. Yes, thank you. Thank you so much."

"The table is reserved at Adyton's for 2 PM sharp. Please be punctual."

The line went dead before Isabelle could ask why a corporate lawyer was meeting her at a restaurant instead of his office. Before she could question the strangeness of it all.

But she didn't have time to question. She had five minutes to get ready.

\---

Adyton's was a secret jewel tucked in the heart of Athens—hidden behind an unmarked brass door, through winding archways that descended into a cavernous space that felt like an ancient temple. Warm amber light flickered against exposed stone walls, and the air hummed with the clink of crystal and the murmur of wealthy patrons.

Isabelle felt hopelessly out of place as she was led to a corner table. Her simple dress and nervous hands were a stark contrast to the silk-clad women and suited men who populated the room.

At exactly 2 PM, a man in a pristine white suit appeared before her.

Matteo De Luca was handsome in a sharp, predatory way—his dark hair peppered with gray at the temples, his jaw clean-shaven, his Armani watch catching the light as he sat without invitation. He didn't look at her so much as through her, his eyes already scanning the room with the bored efficiency of a man who'd seen it all.

"Signora Isabelle?"

She nodded, rising to greet him. "Avvocato De Luca, thank you for seeing me—"

"Let's skip the pleasantries," he cut in, his voice flat. "Your case?"

Isabelle's cheeks flushed, but she pressed on. "It's about custody. My daughter. I'm afraid my husband—my legal husband—will try to take her from me. He's powerful, and no lawyer in Athens will touch my case, but someone gave me your card and said you could help—"

Matteo's expression shifted.

His head tilted, eyes narrowing with sudden, sharp focus. "Custody?" He repeated the word like it was a foreign language. "You came to me for a custody battle?"

Isabelle's stomach dropped. "Yes, I—"

"I'm a corporate lawyer, signora." His voice was cold, dismissive. "Mergers. Acquisitions. Banking law. I don't handle petty divorces or child custody disputes. You should have checked my website."

The embarrassment was a hot flush creeping up her neck. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't know—"

"And I'm curious," he pressed, leaning forward, his eyes glinting with something calculating. "How exactly did you get my private number? It's not listed anywhere."

Isabelle fumbled for the card, sliding it across the table. "Someone gave it to me."

Matteo picked it up, his expression unreadable. "And this someone told you I handle custody cases?" He studied the card, then her. "Who was it?"

Isabelle hesitated. The confession burned on her tongue.

"I think... I think it was Daphne Karistou. My husband's fiancée."

Something shifted in Matteo's eyes. A spark. A recognition.

He crushed the card in his palm, his jaw tightening. "Daphne Karistou gave you this?"

Isabelle nodded, confused by the sudden change in his demeanor.

"Which means your husband is Nikolaos Dimetriou?"

She nodded again.

Matteo's eyes turned to molten fire. His teeth ground together, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he stared at her with barely contained fury.

Before Isabelle could ask what she'd done wrong, the restaurant's atmosphere shifted.

A hush fell over the room.

"Don't turn around," Matteo said, his voice low and sharp. "But your husband just walked in. And Daphne is with him. They're both staring at us right now."

Isabelle's blood turned to ice.

She didn't need to turn around to feel the weight of Nic's gaze—that familiar, crushing pressure that made her feel like prey. She could picture him perfectly: his broad shoulders, his dark suit, his eyes already locked onto her with murderous intent.

"Sit down," Matteo snapped as she began to rise. "You just walked into Daphne's trap. And I'm guessing if we don't play this right, your husband will kill me before he drags you out of here. So sit. Down."

Isabelle sank back into her chair, her hands trembling beneath the table.

Across the room, Daphne whispered something in Nic's ear—poison dressed in silk—and his expression hardened.

He separated himself from Daphne's grip and stalked toward them.

\---

"Had a nice lunch, darling?"

The word darling landed like a slap. His eyes bore down on her from above, dark and raging, promising retribution. Isabelle opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Daphne's voice rang out from across the room, sweet and sharp. "Nic? Should we begin?"

He didn't turn. His gaze never left Isabelle. "I'll be there in a moment, Daphne. I just need to make sure my wife gets home safely."

The word safely was a threat wrapped in silk. Isabelle's throat tightened.

His hand closed around her wrist like a manacle, pulling her to her feet. The grip was cruel—until he saw her wince. Then, almost involuntarily, his thumb began to trace soothing circles against her skin.

"How did you get here?" he growled.

"By cab."

He scoffed, the sound bitter and sharp. "Two chauffeur-driven cars at your disposal, and you took a cab? So you could spend the afternoon with your new lover without witnesses?"

Isabelle said nothing. Didn't defend herself. It was better this way. Better he thought her a cheater than a woman planning to take his daughter and flee the country.

She shuddered.

"Let's go," he commanded. "I'll have my driver take you home."

"Of course," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm she couldn't quite suppress. "Wouldn't want to interfere with your romantic lunch."

His grip tightened until she winced—then loosened, his thumb returning to that maddening, soothing circle. "Don't make a scene. And don't mention Daphne's name again."

As he pulled her away, she glanced back at Matteo De Luca.

The corporate lawyer was still lounging in his chair, a dangerously amused expression on his face. He raised his glass in a mock toast as Nic dragged Isabelle toward the exit.

"Divorce my foot," she heard him murmur.

And then the restaurant doors closed behind them, and Isabelle was alone with her husband's fury.