Chapter 26: A fat Check
"Yes! I studied horticulture for a reason," Isadora said quickly, a hint of relief softening her tone. For a moment, the conversation felt almost normal—two women chatting over tea, not a tense encounter between strangers with invisible weapons drawn.
The waiter returned then, setting down two delicate porcelain cups and a small kettle filled with steaming green liquid. The faint aroma of herbs rose between them—earthy, sharp, and slightly medicinal.
Isadora stared at the liquid’s murky green hue, her lips twitching faintly. Is this even edible? she wondered, forcing herself to pour some into her cup as Namira lifted hers with unhurried grace.
Namira took a slow, measured sip, her expression serene. Isadora hesitated, then mimicked the gesture, only to immediately regret it. The taste was bitter and strange—like wet leaves steeped in regret.
Oh, for heaven’s sake—it tastes like dirt, she thought, doing her best to keep her face neutral. A faint frown still betrayed her, tugging at the corner of her lips despite her effort.
"Bitter, isn’t it?" Namira said suddenly, setting her cup down with deliberate calm.
Isadora glanced up, caught off guard. "A bit," she admitted cautiously.
"That’s how I feel," Namira continued, her voice lowering, "about any woman who tries to take advantage of my nephew’s weakness."
The words hit like a shard of ice against Isadora’s chest.
Her fingers froze around her teacup. Take advantage? she thought, her mind racing.
She wanted to laugh, or perhaps defend herself—to say there isn’t a person alive who could take advantage of Dante. But she bit her tongue, choosing silence over defiance.
Namira’s eyes, once soft and appraising, now glinted with something sharper—something unmistakably predatory. The air between them grew taut, humming with quiet hostility.
"You appear out of nowhere," Namira said, her tone steady but threaded with disdain, "and suddenly, you’re to be married. Clearly, he’s been charmed by you."
Her voice carried both contempt and reluctant fascination, as though she could not decide whether to despise or admire Isadora.
Isadora opened her mouth but no words came. The fire in Namira’s gaze warned her that logic would be wasted here.
Then, without breaking eye contact, Namira reached into her bag. She drew out an envelope and laid it carefully on the table between them. The motion was smooth, precise—almost elegant.
"Here," she said softly. "That’s fifty million dollars."
Isadora’s eyes widened. Her breath caught.
Namira slid the envelope toward her with a perfectly manicured hand, her tone light, almost casual. "All you have to do is make sure your wedding doesn’t happen."
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to fall silent. The murmuring café faded, the sound of clinking china disappeared.
Isadora’s gaze dropped to the envelope. Through its half-open flap, she could see a check—her full name written in elegant handwriting, the ink still fresh. The amount made her heart lurch. It wasn’t just an offer; it was a command dressed in civility.
Her fingers trembled as she looked up again. Namira was still watching her, sipping her tea like nothing unusual had transpired.
There it was—the demon Dante had warned her about. And suddenly, his words no longer felt like exaggeration at all.
"Wha–what?" Isadora stammered. She looked down again to confirm what she was seeing. The check was already signed. All she had to do was walk into a bank, and the fortune would be hers.
Isadora raised her head slowly, studying Namira’s calm face. The woman looked perfectly at ease, as if she’d just offered to pay for lunch. She took another sip of her tea, her posture relaxed, her smile faint but unwavering.
Isadora didn’t touch the check. She only stared at it, her expression unreadable, before she finally found her voice. "You want me to stop the wedding?" she asked carefully, as if confirming an absurd misunderstanding.
"Yes," Namira replied with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "Nothing more. You’re the bride—it’s something quite within your power, don’t you think?"
Isadora said nothing.
Yes, of course she could stop the wedding. But money wasn’t her problem. Protection was. Who would protect her family if she crossed Dante? Certainly not the woman sitting in front of her, pretending generosity.
Going against Dante for her seems like a terrible idea, she thought grimly, glancing at the check once more. Fifty million dollars—an impossible temptation for anyone else. But not for her. She wasn’t suicidal.
With a quiet sigh, Isadora reached out slightly, her fingertips hovering near the envelope... and then she pulled her hand back, refusing to touch it.
"Thanks," she said finally, her tone polite but edged, "but I’d rather not."
Namira raised an elegant brow, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing her face. Then, without a word, she extended her hand and slid the envelope back toward herself, as if reclaiming something trivial.
"So you’re not with him for money," she murmured, more to herself than to Isadora. "That means he’s doing something else for you."
Her voice was smooth, speculative. Her eyes narrowed slightly, studying Isadora the way one studies a riddle. "Either that, or the money he’s offering you is quite a lot. Makes me wonder what he wants from you."
The insinuation made Isadora’s stomach twist, but she refused to rise to it.
Namira leaned forward, resting her chin lightly on her hand. "How about this?" she said softly, "I’ll still give you the money if you simply tell me why you—"
"I’ve said all I need to say," Isadora interrupted, her voice steady but cool. She rose from her chair and gave a respectful bow of her head—just enough to show courtesy to an elder, nothing more.
Namira’s eyes followed her every movement, calm and unreadable.
Isadora turned and began to walk away, but she hadn’t taken two steps when Namira’s voice stopped her.
"Are you not going to pay for your tea?" Namira asked, her tone honey-sweet and mocking. "You ordered it, didn’t you?"
Isadora froze. Slowly, she turned her head. Namira’s lips curved into a sly smile, eyes glinting with amusement.
Isadora’s expression didn’t change. Without a word, she gestured to Ettore, who had remained quietly behind her the entire time.
"Pay," she said simply.
She made no move toward her bag, no attempt to pull out the black card that Guila had given her. The last thing she intended was to give Namira another weapon to use against her. Ettore stepped forward, expression neutral, and handled the payment swiftly.
Namira watched them leave, her smile serene, her eyes sharp as glass.
The moment they were outside, Isadora exhaled, the tension finally breaking like a snapped string.
"I hate sly people like her the most," she muttered, frowning as they walked toward the waiting car. "I’d rather she’d just been openly hostile."
The anger simmered beneath her ribs, hot and restless. She climbed into the car, slamming the door harder than she intended. As the driver pulled away, she sat in silence for a moment, staring out the window as the city blurred past.
Tossing money in my face just to hear what I’d say... The thought made her grip her bag tighter, nails pressing into her palm. Every second replayed itself in her head—the patronizing tone, the smug smile, the quiet insult disguised as politeness.
Her frown deepened the more she thought about it.
After several minutes, she let out a long breath and crossed her arms. "I’m not going back to the estate," she said abruptly.
Ettore glanced at her through the rearview mirror. "My Lady?"
"I’ve had enough lessons, instructors, etiquette drills for one lifetime," she said sharply. "Change direction. We’re going to the mall."
Ettore hesitated only a second before nodding. "Understood." He leaned forward and gave a quiet instruction to the driver, who smoothly changed course.
Isadora sank deeper into the seat, her irritation shifting into something far more mischievous. "If Dante’s family is going to keep driving me insane," she murmured, "then I might as well get something out of it."
The corners of her mouth lifted faintly as she stared out the window, watching the crowded streets glide by.
Maybe I can get something for Elisa, she thought suddenly, her anger softening just a little. Her stepsister had been so thrilled when Isadora promised to bring her a gift. The thought warmed her mood, if only slightly.
The mall wasn’t far. She could already picture the sparkling displays, the scent of perfume, the soft rustle of expensive fabric. Retail therapy—at Dante’s expense—felt like poetic justice.
She tilted her head back against the seat, a smirk tugging at her lips. He’s the one who put me through all this mental torture, she thought, so he can pay for my recovery.
Ettore said nothing, but his faint smile in the mirror suggested he understood perfectly.
And as the car turned toward the shopping district, Isadora’s frustration began to dissolve—not completely, but enough for her to imagine the satisfying sound of her credit card swiping through every boutique in sight.
If Namira Bellini wanted to rattle her, she had succeeded. But if Dante’s aunt thought she could break her, she was sorely mistaken.
Because Isadora might not have taken the fifty million—but she had no problem spending every last cent of his money to soothe her pride.
