The little girl in the pH๏τograph looked about eight years old.

She had dark curls, enormous brown eyes, and a smile that seemed strangely familiar.

She was holding a drawing of a house.

Above the roof were three stick figures.

A woman.

A man.

And a little girl.

Beneath them, in crooked handwriting, were four words:

Our Family. Maybe Someday.

I stared at the picture.

Then at Isabelle’s face on the tablet.

“Gabriel,” she said quietly, “her name is Lily.”

I had never heard that name.

“She turned eight last month. And she’s been asking me when she can finally meet you.”

My throat тιԍнтened.

“Who is she?”

As though Isabelle could hear my question, she continued.

“Lily is my sister Rosa’s daughter.”

I froze.

Rosa.

Isabelle’s younger sister.

They hadn’t spoken in years.

At least, that was what I’d believed.

“Rosa pᴀssed away three weeks ago,” Isabelle said.

I sat down hard on the bed.

“She left behind one little girl. And before she died, she asked me to take care of her.”

Isabelle lowered her eyes.

“I wanted us to become Lily’s family, Gabriel.”

The room began spinning.

I remembered Isabelle asking me to stay home.

Just seven days.

I’d accused her of trying to control me.

But she hadn’t been playing a game.

She’d been asking me to stand beside her while she grieved her sister and tried to give an orphaned child a home.

The video continued.

“I know you never liked talking about children,” Isabelle whispered.

My chest тιԍнтened.

She was right.

Eight years earlier, Isabelle and I had lost our only pregnancy.

Our daughter had been stillborn.

Her name was Sophie.

Afterward, Isabelle had wanted to talk about her.

To remember her.

To visit the little memorial garden we’d planted.

But I couldn’t bear it.

I buried myself in work.

Whenever Isabelle mentioned trying again or considering adoption, I said the same thing.

“Maybe someday.”

Someday.

The word I used whenever I didn’t want to face something.

Isabelle had eventually stopped asking.

I thought she’d accepted our life.

Now I realized she’d simply learned how to live with disappointment.

Alone.

On the tablet, Isabelle wiped away a tear.

“Lily lost her mother, Gabriel. She needed someone to tell her she wasn’t alone.”

Her voice cracked.

“And I wanted you to meet her before we discussed how she might become part of our family.”

She smiled sadly.

“I thought maybe you’d see what I saw. A sweet little girl who still believes the world can be kind.”

I covered my face.

Isabelle continued.

“But then the doctors called.”

My hands went cold.

She glanced down at the hospital bracelet around her wrist.

“Three months ago, I found a lump.”

The words struck me like lightning.

“I went for tests. They found something suspicious, and I needed a biopsy.”

I stared at the screen.

She had been going through medical appointments.

Alone.

While I’d been sending Camille flowers and taking her to private dinners.

“I was frightened,” Isabelle whispered. “I didn’t know what the results would mean.”

Her eyes filled.

“So I asked you to stay home for seven days. I needed someone beside me at the hospital. And I wanted to talk to you about Lily.”

She looked directly into the camera.

“But you said your meetings were more important.”

I whispered her name.

“Isabelle…”

She shook her head.

“I didn’t want expensive jewelry. I didn’t want another apology delivered with flowers.”

Her voice broke.

“I just wanted my husband to hold my hand.”

The recording changed.

Now I was watching footage from our old design studio.

Isabelle sat at a sewing machine.

Her hair was tied in a messy bun.

She was laughing because I’d accidentally sewn two pieces of fabric together.

I remembered that night.

We’d worked until three in the morning.

Then eaten cheap noodles on the floor.

The video moved forward.

Our first fashion show.

Our first investors.

Our wedding.

Our first mansion.

Then Isabelle appeared again.

This time, she was standing inside our company’s original workshop.

Behind her were rows of sewing machines.

“There’s something else you should know, Gabriel.”

She took a slow breath.

“For fifteen years, I protected the people who helped us build your dream.”

I frowned.

She continued.

“When you started cutting costs, I used my own dividends to protect the original workshop.”

My stomach тιԍнтened.

I’d authorized restructuring the previous year.

I’d ordered several small production units closed.

My executives told me the transitions had gone smoothly.

I hadn’t asked what happened to the people working there.

Isabelle looked directly into the camera.

“Do you remember Madame Fournier? The seamstress who taught you how to cut your first jacket?”

Of course I remembered.

She was seventy-one now.

She’d been with us from the beginning.

“You approved closing her workshop last year.”

I lowered my head.

“She called me crying,” Isabelle continued. “Twenty-three employees were going to lose their jobs.”

The video showed a pH๏τograph of Madame Fournier embracing Isabelle.

“So I stepped in. I helped finance a worker-owned business that could keep the workshop operating.”

I stared at the screen.

I hadn’t known.

Not one word.

“I didn’t tell you because I was tired of begging you to remember the people who made your success possible.”

She paused.

“And Gabriel, I need you to understand something.”

Her expression grew firm.

“I was never simply the woman standing behind your success.”

She held up an old document.

Our original company agreement.

I’d forgotten about it.

We’d signed it in our tiny apartment before our first collection.

“I was your cofounder,” she said. “And I still legally own my original shares.”

My mouth went dry.

She was right.

Isabelle had never surrendered her ownership.

Her name simply hadn’t appeared in public interviews because she’d preferred working privately.

I’d become so accustomed to calling the company mine that I’d stopped remembering it had once been ours.

“But don’t worry,” she added quietly. “I don’t want to destroy the business we built.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I just refuse to keep disappearing inside it.”

The video ended with one final message.

“Gabriel, by the time you’re watching this, I’ll have left the house.”

She took a breath.

“The doctors have a treatment plan, and I’m going to follow it. My health is no longer something I’m willing to neglect.”

My hands trembled.

“And I’m going to take care of Lily.”

A tear rolled down her cheek.

“For fifteen years, I waited for you to make room for me in your life.”

She looked into the camera one final time.

“Now I need to make room for myself.”

Then the screen went black.

I sat on the bed for nearly an hour.

The mansion was silent.

The seven boxes sat beside me.

I called Isabelle.

No answer.

I called her mother, Catherine.

She answered immediately.

“Gabriel.”

“Where is she?”

A pause.

“She’s safe.”

“Is she sick?”

Silence.

“Catherine, please. I just watched the video.”

Her voice hardened.

“Then you know what she went through while you were in Rome.”

I swallowed.

“Is she going to be okay?”

“She has doctors looking after her.”

“Can I see her?”

“No.”

The word was immediate.

“Catherine, she’s my wife.”

“And where were you when she needed her husband?”

I had no answer.

Then she said something I’ll never forget.

“She spent years defending you, Gabriel. Even when I told her she deserved better.”

Her voice cracked.

“But that little girl has already lost her mother. Isabelle isn’t going to let Lily grow up believing love means waiting for someone who never comes home.”

The call ended.

The next morning, I drove to my company’s headquarters.

My personal ᴀssistant, Thomas, looked startled.

“Mr. Laurent, we weren’t expecting you until Monday.”

“Cancel everything.”

“Sir?”

“Everything.”

I walked into my office.

For fifteen years, I’d believed I was building an empire.

Now I wanted to know what that empire had cost.

I requested the original company records.

The workshop closure documents.

And every email Isabelle had sent me during the past year.

Thomas hesitated.

“Mr. Laurent, some of those messages were handled by your executive office.”

I frowned.

“What do you mean?”

He looked uncomfortable.

“Ms. Arden had access to portions of your schedule and correspondence while you were traveling.”

Camille.

My stomach тιԍнтened.

“Why?”

“She said you authorized her to help coordinate your personal appointments.”

I remembered.

I’d given Camille access because I didn’t want Isabelle calling during our trips.

I had handed my mistress the power to decide which messages from my wife were important enough for me to read.

“Show me the archived emails.”

Thomas opened the system.

There they were.

Messages from Isabelle.

Gabriel, I need you to call me about Rosa.

Please. The hospital has scheduled another appointment.

I know you’re busy, but this is important.

And one message sent three days before Rome.

Gabriel, I don’t think I can do this alone anymore.

Every one of them had been marked as handled.

Some had never appeared in my primary inbox.

I stared at the screen.

Then noticed a message from Camille.

Sent to Thomas.

Gabriel doesn’t need to be distracted with Isabelle’s personal drama. I’ll deal with it.

I felt sick.

But then Thomas opened another email.

One sent from Camille to an external address.

Its subject line read:

LAURENT EQUITY — POST-SEPARATION STRATEGY.

I frowned.

“What is that?”

Thomas looked alarmed.

“I’ve never seen it before.”

The attachment was a confidential document discussing Isabelle’s ownership in Laurent Fashion House.

And a proposed plan for what would happen to those shares if my marriage ended.

I slowly sat down.

Camille hadn’t just been interfering in my marriage.

She had been discussing its collapse as a business opportunity.

That afternoon, I confronted her.

Camille arrived wearing a black designer coat and the diamond necklace I’d bought her in Rome.

She smiled when she entered.

“Gabriel, darling. You’ve been ignoring my calls.”

I placed the printed emails on my desk.

Her smile disappeared.

“What is this?”

“You tell me.”

She glanced at the documents.

Then looked away.

“It’s just business.”

“Why were you discussing my wife’s shares?”

“Because somebody has to protect your company.”

I stared at her.

“From Isabelle?”

Camille folded her arms.

“She’s been holding you back for years.”

Something inside me went cold.

“Watch your words.”

She laughed.

“Oh, please. You complained about her constantly.”

I flinched.

Because she was right.

I had made my marriage sound like a burden.

I’d told Camille Isabelle was too emotional.

Too demanding.

Too attached to our past.

And Camille had listened.

Then used those complaints to make my wife seem like an obstacle.

Camille stepped closer.

“Gabriel, you’re worth billions. You don’t need a woman who makes you feel guilty every time you enjoy your life.”

I looked at her.

For nine months, I’d mistaken her admiration for love.

Now I saw something else.

Ambition.

Enтιтlement.

And the same selfishness I’d been refusing to recognize in myself.

“We’re finished,” I said.

She stared at me.

“What?”

“Your professional arrangements will be reviewed separately. But whatever existed between us personally is over.”

Her expression hardened.

“You’re choosing Isabelle?”

I shook my head.

“No.”

My voice broke.

“I’m finally understanding what I did to her.”

Camille laughed bitterly.

“You really think she’ll take you back?”

I said nothing.

She grabbed her purse.

“Then you should know something.”

I looked up.

She smiled coldly.

“Your wife didn’t just leave you, Gabriel.”

My stomach тιԍнтened.

“What are you talking about?”

Camille stepped toward the door.

“She met with a divorce attorney before you ever boarded that plane.”

I went completely still.

“And according to the documents I saw, she isn’t asking for your money.”

Camille paused.

“She’s asking for something you promised her fifteen years ago—and forgot you ever gave her.”

The door slammed behind her.

I stood alone in my office.

Then I reached for our original partnership agreement.

At the bottom, beneath Isabelle’s signature, was a handwritten clause.

One we’d drafted together in the tiny apartment where everything began.

I read it once.

Then again.

And suddenly, I understood why Isabelle had left seven boxes instead of a goodbye letter.

She wasn’t trying to take my fortune.

She was asking me to return something I had stolen from her long before Camille entered our lives.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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