Chapter 132: The real event

A realization settled in her chest. Her father hadn’t been careless when he introduced Aaron Kazarov into their lives years ago.

He hadn’t just made a cold business deal. Lance had brought Aaron in because he trusted him. Because Aaron belonged to this same world of stubborn, fiercely protective men.

"He was a good man," Aaron said quietly, adding his voice to the silence. "Rude, but good."

Isabella shot a look toward the sound of Aaron’s voice. "He was not rude."

"He yelled at my chief of security over a late coffee shipment," Aaron shot back calmly. "He was rude."

Don Moretti laughed again, the fabric of his suit rustling as he clapped his hand against Aaron’s shoulder. "He is right, Isabella! Your father had a terrible temper!"

The old man turned back to Aaron, his voice dropping into something lower, more serious. He shifted his posture slightly, leaning closer to Aaron.

"The room is ready upstairs," the Don said softly, using vague, indirect phrasing that carried an undeniable weight. "The key guests from London and Berlin have already taken their seats. We were only waiting for you to arrive before we lock the doors."

Aaron’s posture shifted instantly. The casual, relaxed air he had carried vanished, replaced in a split second by the cold, lethal businessman. He understood the code immediately.

The real event, the high-stakes, closed-door meeting that controlled billions of dollars in international trade and security was about to start.

He looked down at Isabella, a subtle hesitation holding him back. He didn’t want to leave her alone in a room full of strangers.

Don Moretti caught the shift and let out an amused scoff. "Oh, stop it. Look at you, hovering like an old mother hen."

The three granddaughters behind the Don instantly giggled, stepping forward.

"She will be completely fine with us, Aaron," one of the Don’s older daughters said smoothly, her voice warm as she spoke toward Isabella. "We aren’t going to eat her."

"Speak for yourself, Aunt Sofia," one of the granddaughters muttered under her breath. "I want to steal her shoes."

"Giulia!" her mother scolded, the sharp sound of a gentle slap hitting the girl’s arm.

The girl immediately put on an innocent tone. "What? I meant she has great taste!"

Aaron turned his head toward the seventeen-year-old girl, his face blank, though the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

He turned back to Isabella, leaning down until his warm breath brushed her ear.

"I have to step away for a little while," he whispered, his deep voice rubbing over her nerves like velvet. "Sit tight. Don’t go wandering off into the gardens."

Isabella rolled her eyes behind her mask, tilting her head up. "I know how to sit in a chair, Aaron. Go do your scary stuff."

Aaron smiled. Instead of pulling back, he leaned in further, pressing a slow, warm, deliberate kiss right to the side of her soft lips.

It wasn’t a fast, polite peck but lingering, hot, and completely possessive.

"Awww!" the three teenage girls instantly cooed in unison behind him, clapping their hands together.

Isabella’s face turned bright, bright red. The heat surged straight up her neck, burning her cheeks. "Aaron!" she hissed under her breath, her hands reaching up to push his chest away. "Stop that!"

Aaron pulled back slowly, looking immensely pleased with himself as he watched her blush spread all the way down to her collarbones.

He loved embarrassing her. He loved the way her dark eyebrows pulled together in mock anger and shy, hidden heat.

"I’ll be back soon," he murmured, his thumb brushing over her hot cheek one last time.

He turned, walking alongside Don Moretti toward a hidden side door near the corner of the room.

Two heavy guards stepped aside, the sound of thick wooden doors swinging open and shutting behind them with a heavy, final thud.

The moment the doors closed, a heavy silence fell over the sofa.

Isabella sat frozen for three seconds, holding her breath, waiting for the polite, stiff conversation to start.

Then, the ambush hit.

The three girls descended on her like a pack of stylish, excited wolves.

"So!" the eldest one, a seventeen-year-old with a bright, energetic voice, said, the sofa cushion dipping heavily right beside Isabella as she sat down with zero hesitation. "Are you actually going to marry him?"

Isabella blinked, stunned. "What?"

"How long have you known him?" the second girl, who sounded about sixteen, asked, her breath warm against the top of Isabella’s head as she leaned over the back of the sofa. "Is he always that scary? Dad says he controls all of Eastern Europe!"

"Did he really carry you out of the hospital in New York?" the youngest, a pre-teen with a bright, squeaky voice, piped up from the carpet near her feet. "I read about it on Twitter! They said he threw a camera at a reporter!"

Isabella sat there, her hands still resting on her green silk dress, her mind completely reeling. "I... wait, what?"

"Girls, leave the poor woman alone!" their mother called out from across the room, though she didn’t sound particularly strict about it.

"We are just being welcoming, Mom!" the seventeen-year-old shot back loudly before turning right back to Isabella, her perfume sweet and heavy in the air.

"Seriously, your hair is so cute. Who did it? And your accent, you’re from New York, right? What is it like living there? Do you hate Italy? Do you like the dress? I like it!’

Isabella sat in the middle of the sudden storm of teenage energy, her mouth slightly open.

For years, people had treated her like a fragile glass doll, speaking in low, sad whispers, pitying her, or asking about her tragic divorce.

Nobody had asked her about her shoes, her hair, or whether she liked New York in months.

A small, surprised laugh burst out of Isabella’s chest. She shook her head, a real, bright smile spreading across her face as she leaned back into the sofa, completely relinquishing her quiet defenses.

"Okay, okay," Isabella said, her voice full of lively, spirited humor. "One question at a time. And no, he didn’t throw a camera at anyone. I think he just broke it."

The girls gasped in collective, delighted excitement, crowding even closer, and as the heavy wooden doors upstairs stayed firmly shut, Isabella Kingston finally let herself enjoy the party.