Isabel’s POV

The camera flashed again. The lights were so bright, it could blind someone.

“Hold it” the photographer said. “Don’t move.” “Yes, yes” he said, as if I were an

artifact to be studied at the museum.

“Is that all you got?” “Give me more attitude” he said so casually.

With the silver Armani dress clinging to my body, I felt like an actual goddess. I

struck another pose, giving him something to work with.

“Don’t move Cherie” he shouted. “Now give me your best poker face.” Well, that’s not

hard. I stare straight into the camera’s lens with no emotion.

The shutter clicked one last time. “Wrap it up.” the photographer yelled.

I loved that he was great at his job, but he could do without the yelling.

My shoulders dropped. Feeling relieved. As I headed for the dressing room, my

assistant, Mika, approached me with a bottle in her hand.

“You looked amazing” she said with bright eyes.

I’ve always been fond of Mika, she’s different from other assistants I’ve employed. I

could tell she was dedicated to her job.

“Your next shoot is next month at the Carson’s runway” she said.

“Okay, send me the details” I said as I walked towards the dressing room.

I reach into my purse for my phone. Three missed calls from Sophie. Two from my

dad.

That’s quite odd.

I dial Sophie’s number. She picks up the phone in a heartbeat.

“Anything wrong?” I said.

“Your dad called me.”

Four words I didn’t expect to hear. Dad only called Sophie if it was urgent.

“Why?” I said, with shaky breath.

“He didn’t say” she said.

“He did ask if I was with you.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I wasn’t.”

“SOPHIE!” I yelled.

“I’m not lying to your dad, Isabel.”

“Okay, I’ll call him later. Thanks for the heads up.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Yes.”

“Isabel,” she said, sounding worried.

“I’ll be fine Sophie” I said, reassuring her.

“Love you.”

“Love you too.” I said, ending the call.

As I step outside, the cold breeze meets me unexpectedly.

The street was awfully quiet. It’ll be hard to find a taxi by this time.

Before she could walk further, a black Mercedes pulled to the side.

My father’s driver stepped out.

“Your father sent me to pick you up,” he said.

“No thank you, I can come home by myself.”

“He insisted you follow me.” He said with a poker face.

I pause for a second, thinking about what I was about to do. What could go wrong?

“Okay, fine.” I said, giving in

“Thank you.”

No response. Well, that’s just wonderful.

The drive to the Sinclair estate was quiet.

I could’ve run away. I had a choice to turn back.

Why didn’t I?

I guess a small part of me was curious to find out what’s going on.

We finally arrived.

“We’re here” the driver said.

I didn’t move. I didn’t know what to expect when I walked into that mansion. I hated it

here.

The side door opens. I step outside with shaky hands.

Near the fountain, a black Benz was parked. Who could that be?

My father isn’t the type to welcome visitors by this time of the night.

As I walk to the steps. The front door opens.

“Your father is waiting for you in the living room” a maid says.

I removed my coat and handed it over to the maid.

She bows her head slightly and leaves. I don’t think I could ever get used to that.

As I walk into the living room, two other men are seated there.

One was Mr. Charles Beaumont . I knew him because he was my father’s business

rival.

The other was another man I didn’t recognize, but something about him looked

familiar.

He looked young but not much older than her.

He was wearing a black suit, with his dark hair, which was neatly combed, and his

striking features, he looked straight out of a magazine.

He didn’t even notice when I walked into the living room. His face was glued to his

phone, not aware of his surroundings.

“Sit down.” my father said with a chilling tone.

“No, what is he doing here?” I said, looking at Mr. Beaumont with this dark

expression on my face.

“Sit first and I’ll explain.”

“Who are you?” I asked the other man, completely ignoring my father.

He looked up at me but remained silent.

“I have something to say, but you won’t find it entertaining,” my father says in a

chilling tone.

Something was wrong. I could feel it. What have I gotten myself into?