CHAPTER 23
At the breakfast table, Isla's absence was notable, though not unusual. Normally, Maggie would quietly prepare a plate and take it up to Isla’s room, sparing her the effort of joining the morning routine. But today, an unspoken agreement passed between Maggie and Graham as they exchanged a glance across the table. Without a word, Maggie rose from her seat, determination written on her face.
“I’ll go get her,” she announced firmly, leaving Graham to sip his coffee with a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Ten minutes later, Maggie returned, escorting Isla into the dining room like a prisoner of war forced to face her captor. Isla shuffled in, clearly displeased, her grumpy expression a stormcloud of indignation. She slid into her seat with a dramatic sigh, her lips pushed into a pout that could rival the sulkiest child.
Her displeasure was as evident as the chaotic state of her hair, a wild tangle of black and brown curls that framed her face in unruly defiance. She hadn’t even bothered to run a brush through it, an obvious declaration of her protest against being dragged out of the sanctuary of her room.
From beneath her thick lashes, Isla shot a glare in Graham’s direction, her dark eyes smoldering with annoyance. The combination of her messy hair, pouty lips, and rebellious demeanor might have been meant to deter him, but instead, it only amused him. No, more than that—it charmed him.
For some reason, the sight of Isla sitting across from him, her youthful face glowing with the freshness of the morning, made Graham’s heart slam against his ribcage. Her pouty pink lips, framed by a tangle of unruly curls, and her clear, makeup-free complexion gave her an innocent, unworldly look that tugged at something deep inside him. It was moments like these that made him acutely aware of just how young she was—and how precarious this all could become if he didn’t tread carefully. She was like a glass statue: delicate, fragile, and requiring the utmost care. One wrong move, and he could shatter everything.
“I’m not a child, Maggie,” Isla snapped, her voice breaking through his reverie. She shifted her fiery gaze from him to the housekeeper, her indignation now redirected. “Stop hovering over me like I’m going to run off the moment you blink.”
Maggie, unflinching, planted her hands firmly on her hips and raised an eyebrow in challenge. “I don’t know about that,” she said, her tone carrying the seasoned authority of someone who had raised more children than she cared to count. “For someone insisting over and over again that they’re not a child, you’re doing a fine job acting like one. Pouting, stomping, and refusing to eat breakfast? That’s as childish as it gets.”
Isla’s glare deepened, her lips pressing into a stubborn line. “I’m not hungry,” she shot back, her voice laced with irritation. “That’s all I said.”
Maggie gave an exasperated huff but didn’t relent. “Not hungry, my foot,” she said, her sharp tone softened by the warmth in her eyes. “You’re just being difficult because you didn’t get your way this morning. Now eat your breakfast before I start spoon-feeding you like you’re five years old.”
Graham couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips, though he quickly hid it behind his coffee cup. The exchange was almost comical, Isla’s fiery spirit clashing head-on with Maggie’s no-nonsense demeanor. Yet, beneath the humor, he felt a pang of something deeper—an odd mix of protectiveness and guilt. She was still so young, despite her fiery protests to the contrary. And if he wasn’t careful, if he didn’t handle this right, he could hurt her in ways neither of them could recover from.
But Isla, true to form, wasn’t one to back down so easily. She crossed her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair, her defiance evident in every line of her posture. “Fine,” she said, her tone dripping with reluctance. “I’ll eat. But only because you won’t stop nagging me.”
Maggie opened her mouth, ready to fire back, but Graham raised a hand, a silent signal for her to step aside. With a quick nod and a wary glance at the tension lingering in the room, she left them alone. The silence that followed was thick, stretching between them like an invisible wall. Graham continued eating his toast and eggs, his movements unhurried, while Isla sat across from him, fuming with all the quiet intensity of a storm ready to break.
“You should try the baklava,” he said eventually, his voice calm and soft, as though speaking too loudly might set her off. “One of my clients sent it from New York. You might like it.”
Her response was a burning glare and a sharp, “I hate you.”
The venom in her words was enough to startle most men, but Graham only laughed. He didn’t mean to—it just slipped out, a deep, rich sound that filled the room. He knew it was the worst possible reaction, especially when Isla’s face darkened further, her indignation flaring hotter.
“Coffee, then?” he offered, lifting the pot to pour her a cup. Before he could, Isla snatched the cup out of his hands, her movements jerky with frustration. “I’m not a child. I can pour my own coffee.”
He set the pot down, raising his gaze from the jug to her flushed, fiery face. Her eyes sparked with defiance, her lips—full and pouty from pressing them together too hard—were as red as ripe cherries. Her hair was a tangled mess of black and brown curls, cascading around her face in wild disarray. She wore a soft pink bathrobe over her pajama set, her outfit lending her a softness at odds with the fire in her expression.
It hit him suddenly, a realization that settled heavily in his chest: She keeps saying that—‘I’m not a child.’ Over and over, like a mantra, as if she was trying to convince both herself and everyone else.
And maybe that was the problem.
The truth was, Isla had never been allowed to be anything but the little girl everyone insisted she was. From the moment she’d stepped into the Lancaster household, she’d been showered with affection and coddled with care. His father, Robert Lancaster, had adored her like a beloved daughter, and the entire household had followed suit. They had indulged her every whim, sheltered her from every harsh reality, and, in doing so, kept her in a state of suspended childhood.
But Graham could see now how wrong they all had been. Isla wasn’t a child anymore. She was a young woman—a breathtaking one—with wide, expressive eyes that glimmered with fire and lips that seemed to tremble with unsaid words. Sitting across from her now, he realized how much she must long to be seen as she truly was, not as the girl everyone had confined her to being.
Most women her age had lives of their own—friends who shared secrets over late-night calls, parties where they danced until their feet ached, and romances that set their hearts racing. Isla had been denied all of that. The thought brought a pang of guilt, but it was overshadowed by something stronger: the fierce need to give her the world she’d been kept from.
Yet when his thoughts turned to the kind of boys she might have encountered in that world, his jaw tightened. Teenage boys. Careless, selfish, driven by nothing but impulse and hormones. He’d been one of them once; he knew exactly what they wanted. The idea of Isla in the clutches of some fumbling boy made his blood run hot with anger. He wasn’t sorry she’d been spared that. Not at all.
But the rest?
He glanced at her, at the delicate curve of her neck and the way her messy curls framed her face. She deserved the thrill of being swept off her feet. The elegance of slipping into a gown that made her glow. The excitement of stepping into a room and turning every head. And he would make sure she experienced it all.
Except… it would be with him. Only him.
He imagined it vividly—her dressed in something stunning, her hand resting on his arm as he escorted her into glittering soirées where every eye followed them. He’d teach her to dance, his hand at her waist, guiding her effortlessly across the floor. And when the music faded, and the night gave way to something quieter, he’d lean in, his lips brushing against hers until the world melted away.
The thought of her softness against him, her breath hitching as he deepened the kiss, sent a rush of heat through him. If she wanted passion, he would give it to her. If she wanted to feel like a woman, he would make sure she felt every bit of it—every look, every touch, every whisper of desire.
A quiet, unconscious grin tugged at the corners of Graham’s mouth as he thought about it—Isla’s first kiss. His mind replayed the memory of that moment, the one where he had been the one to take it from her. He couldn't deny the thrill of it, the sensation of her lips against his, soft and unfamiliar, yet somehow undeniably right. She had pulled away from him quickly, retreating with the frantic pace of a startled creature, but even in that moment of distance, a flicker of something else lingered in the air.
Did she feel it too? He wondered. That electric spark, that undeniable chemistry. She had been shocked by his touch—he could see it in her wide eyes, her breath catching in her throat. But had she recoiled in fear or disgust? No. Her lips had not pulled away in rejection; instead, they had clung to his, even if only for a brief instant. Her hands, small and trembling, had gripped his shoulders with such force, leaving faint indentations in his skin as if she hadn’t known her own strength. She hadn’t resisted. She hadn’t fought. She had felt it, too—the pull between them.
The memory of her lips, so soft and full, pressed against his, lingered in his mind like the sweet taste of ripe fruit, intoxicating and warm. She hadn’t complained, hadn’t pushed him away. No, there was something else there, something beneath her initial shock, something that spoke of curiosity, of desire she wasn’t ready to name yet.
Graham’s heart had thudded fiercely against his chest, a wild, erratic rhythm that matched the heat of her body so close to his. He hadn’t known then, but he knew now—the way her lips had parted slightly, the way her breath had quickened, told him everything he needed to know. Isla hadn’t been repulsed by him; she had responded. She had been affected, even if she hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself.
He knew in that moment that he would be the one claiming her every first - the first touch, the first caress, the first intimate encounter.