Get it together, Isabel.
I square my shoulders, straighten my blazer, and slip my phone into my bag without checking it again.
One thing at a time.
Even if I feel like I’m breaking into pieces… I’m still moving.
The bell above the door of the print shop jingles as I step out, my fingers curled around a small box of newly printed business cards. Isabel Weister—gold on matte black. Clean. Sophisticated. Mine.
For the first time in years, something with my name on it feels like me.
Getting back in the car with my precious box, I drive toward Dad’s office. Once I get there, I realize the building he chose is cold and far too grand. Typical. Dad never does personal. Just polished surfaces and performative concern.
Julian is laughing with a group of men when I walk in. The moment he sees me; he excuses himself and strides over.
“Isabel…”
“Julian.” I greet him with a curt nod and head straight toward the elevators.
Of course, he follows. His footsteps echo mine until a throat clears behind us.
Morris.
We both turn. Morris stands with arms crossed, flanked by X, both of them looking far from amused.
“Do you need help, ma’am?” Morris asks, voice calm but firm. “I need you to take two steps back from Mrs. Weister,” he tells Julian flatly, pressing the elevator call button. “Kennet, wait here.”
Julian opens his mouth to respond, but the elevator doors slide open. I step in first, Morris right behind me.
“You can relax, Morris,” I say with a small smile. “He’s just my dad’s bodyguard.”
“I’m doing my job, ma’am.”
“Okay, but could you maybe not sound like a robot? You can call me Isabel. You’re going to be working with us for a while, after all.”
He glances at me, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I value my life,” he replies with a dry chuckle. “But I’ll try to be a little less formal if that makes you feel more comfortable.”
“Somehow that’s both reassuring and unsettling. Did Nate give you very specific instructions or something?” I raise an eyebrow, already guessing the answer.
“Captain Weister said if anything happens to you, we may as well start digging our own graves.” His tone is light, but there’s truth behind the words. “And as I mentioned—I really value my life.”
I can’t help but laugh. “He was kidding, Morris.”
Morris doesn’t respond, but his smirk says otherwise.
The elevator dings. We’ve reached my father’s floor. As the doors open, I step out, feeling the weight of my husband’s overprotectiveness in every shadow—and oddly enough, not minding it.
The conference room looks more like a war room than a place for conversation. Morris waits by the door while I step in, the scent of espresso and ambition thick in the air.
Dad sits at the head of the table, surrounded by a few of his political allies—men twice my age who pretend to smile when they see me. He gestures to the seat beside him, but there’s no warmth in it. Just command. Time seems to stay still until he finally focuses on me. “I’ve heard about your… little venture.”
Little venture. Of course.
“I’m starting my own firm. It’s not a venture—it’s a career,” I say, keeping my voice measured. “One I built. Not one handed to me.”
He leans back, steepling his fingers. “You had a seat waiting for you here. A clear future. All of it—yours.”
“Yours,” I correct. “It was your path. Not mine.”
