The guy who’d answered the door led me through hallways lined with artwork—oil paintings in gilded frames, sculptures on marble pedestals, the kind of wealth designed to intimidate. My boots echoed on the polished floors.
Baron’s study occupied a corner of the house, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the vineyards. Leather-bound books lined the walls, and a crystal decanter of amber liquid rested on a sideboard. The manhimself sat behind a massive mahogany desk, papers spread before him as if I’d interrupted important work.
He didn’t stand when I entered. Nor did he offer me a seat.
“Avila.” His demeanor was cool, his eyes assessing. “I wondered how long it would take you to show up.”
“Where’s Isabel?”
Baron’s brow rose a fraction. “I was hoping you could tell me. She’s been with you for weeks, hasn’t she?”
“She’s not here?”
“Why would she be?” He rested against his chair, steepling his fingers. “My daughter made it quite clear she wanted nothing to do with me. She ran away rather than face the consequences of her actions. And now, apparently, she’s done the same to you.”
The statement meant to wound, and it did. But I held my ground. “I know she came here.”
“You’re wrong.” Baron’s composure didn’t waver. “Isabel is prone to rash decisions and incapable of following through. Whatever fantasy you’ve constructed about her is just that—a fantasy.”
“You don’t know her at all.”
“I’ve known her, her entire life.” He rose from his chair and moved to the sideboard, his movementsdeliberate and unhurried. He poured himself two fingers of whiskey without offering me any, then turned to face me, glass in hand. “I’ve watched her sabotage every opportunity, every relationship, and every chance at happiness.” He took a sip and studied me. “And now, she’s pregnant. With your child, I assume.”
I went still. “I expected you’d find out.”
“Did you think you could keep it a secret?” His smile held no warmth. “The question is, what do you intend to do about it?”
“What do I intend to do?” I stepped closer to his desk, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “I intend to raise my child with the woman I love. I intend to give that baby everything Isabel never had—stability, acceptance, and a father who loves her.”
Baron set his glass down with a soft click against the polished wood. “Romantic but ridiculously naive.” He moved around the desk, closing the distance between us until I could smell the whiskey on his breath. His eyes were hard and assessing. “Isabel is not even able to take care of herself. She’s fragile and overreacts?—”
“She’s none of those things. You just never bothered toget to know her.”
“I know her better than anyone. I always have,” he snapped, and for the first time, I saw something crack in his composure. “Like every other time she’s needed saving, it’s up to me to do it. She’s incapable of raising a child. You know it. I know it. The best thing for everyone would be for that child to be raised by people actually equipped to handle the responsibility.”
My vision narrowed, and for a moment, the only thing I could see was Baron’s smug, dismissive face. My hands shook with the effort of keeping them at my sides.
“You want her to give up our baby.”
“I want what’s best for everyone involved. Including the child.”
“You don’t get to decide what’s best.” My voice shook with the effort of keeping it level. “You lost that right a long time ago. Isabel is going to be an incredible mother. And I’m going to be there every step of the way. You don’t get a say in this. You spent her entire life making her feel worthless.”
I turned and strode toward the door.
“She’s not here now,” Baron called after me. “But when she realizes what a mistake she’s made, she’ll come back. She always does.”
I didn’t respond. I was already tearing through the hallways, checking rooms, calling Isabel’s name. The staff watched with wide eyes as I searched the first floor, then the second. I checked the guest rooms with their perfectly made beds and untouched surfaces, the library with its walls of leather-bound books, the sunroom with its wicker furniture and potted palms, and the kitchen with its gleaming appliances. Every door I opened revealed the same thing—expensive emptiness.
Isabel wasn’t here. Baron had been telling the truth about that much, at least.
Back outside, I stood beside Snapper’s truck, my chest heaving and my hands still shaking.
“She’s not here,” I said.
“I figured.” Snapper studied my face. “What happened?”
“Baron knows about the baby. He thinks Isabel should give it up for adoption.” The words tasted like poison. “He said she’s not fit to raise a child.”
