Chapter 1 Isolde, Ignoring Me Is Not Acceptable

Isolde Black – POV

I hate London.

Or perhaps, I hate myself there.

I could have stayed. I received tempting job offers, the promise of a new life, a fresh start far away from everything. Yet somehow, I found myself boarding a plane to New York, returning to the very place I had once escaped. Back to a house that never felt like home. Back to a mother who was never truly a mother-or perhaps she was, but the distance between us had erased that bond. And back to a man I had never met yet already despised me.

Vlad Montgomery.

I had heard plenty about him. About his power, his wealth-vast enough to make him one of the most influential men in this cursed city-his ruthlessness in the business world, and, most importantly, his deadly cold demeanor. And his hatred for me.

I had never met him, yet I was certain he didn't want me here. He wouldn't be pleased to have me in his home, not even as his future wife's daughter. In fact, I'd bet he didn't even know what I looked like.

But that didn't matter.

There was no room for doubt-my return to New York was inevitable. I had to go, if only to help my mother prepare for her birthday celebration. And, of course, for her upcoming wedding to Vlad.

Strangely, I felt both excited and apprehensive. I had missed New York-the crisp yet soothing whisper of its breeze.

I had left for London to pursue my university studies, spending three years there since passing my entrance exam with distinction. That achievement had earned me a scholarship abroad, and I had been proud of myself.

Now, my mother was about to marry-at nearly fifty-to a man in his forties whose face, lineage, and background remained a mystery to me.

Just before my departure, she had told me about her relationship with this man and her decision to marry him. Of course, I had been one of her biggest supporters, sharing in her happiness. But at the time, I had been too preoccupied with my studies. My travel documents and arrangements had already been finalized, and my schedule was tight. She hadn't been upset, merely assuring me that the wedding would take place once I returned from London-small and intimate, with only his family in attendance.

And now, it seemed I would be attending my mother's wedding after all.

Throughout my time at Oxford, she had sent me money every month for my living expenses, tuition, and everything else. But I had never dared to ask whether that money came from her own funds or from the man she was about to marry.

A week ago, I received an invitation to her birthday celebration-today was the day. My mother was born on August 26th, and I loved New York summers. Fortunately, I had already taken time off from my studies.

Yet, I wasn't looking forward to meeting this unknown man-my mother's fiancé, the stranger I knew nothing about. But I would meet him, eventually.

Sitting cross-legged on my hotel bed, I absentmindedly adjusted the clothes inside my suitcase. I hadn't returned for him. I hadn't even returned for my mother.

I came back because this had always been my plan-graduate, then return to where it all began, even if only for a short while. A brief stop before deciding where life would take me next.

The night before, I had been too distracted to set my phone alarm, and because of that, I had nearly missed my flight to New York. My eyes flew open in shock when I realized the time-it was already eleven in the morning, and I was supposed to board at ten to arrive in New York by ten at night.

Luck was not on my side.

My mother called to check on me, asking if I was ready. I reassured her warmly before hanging up-I was just about to board.

I didn't want her to worry or wait anxiously, especially when I was bound to be late. It would be embarrassing to keep her and her fiancé-this man I knew nothing about-waiting.

The journey took twelve hours and twenty minutes. I disembarked, exhausted, dragging my suitcases behind me.

Or so I told myself throughout the flight.

Stepping out of the airport gates, a wave of hot air slammed into me, a brutal reminder that summers in New York could be suffocating. Raising a hand, I hailed a cab, ignoring the flood of messages from my mother that had begun lighting up my phone.

I met a tall man dressed in a formal black suit. I couldn't make out his features, as he was also wearing a black mask.

He bowed respectfully while I focused on reading the sign in his hands.

Welcome back, Isolde.

I squinted slightly, reading the words before offering him a small smile and a wave. My mother must have sent him.

"I sent you a driver."

"Isolde, your ignoring me is unacceptable."

"We're waiting for you. Don't be late."

I sighed. Her way of speaking to me, as if I were one of her employees, hadn't changed.

Throwing my bag into the back seat, I gave the driver the address-only to realize he already knew it. Of course, he did. Vlad Montgomery's mansion. The place that was supposed to be my home but had never been anything more than a gilded cage-a prison my mother had meticulously crafted for herself, the queen of her own domain.

The ride took longer than I expected, but when the car finally stopped in front of the massive iron gates, the sight before me was nothing short of breathtaking.

A towering mansion. Majestic. Imposing. Cold.

No warmth. No sense of home. Just sheer luxury, power, and detachment.

A remarkable mansion-what else would one expect from the owner of a high-end perfume empire?

As I walked toward the black iron gates, my steps were random and unsteady. The darkness was so deep that I stumbled for what felt like the hundredth time.

I stepped inside, my strides steady despite the invisible weight pressing against my chest. The moment I reached the grand hall, I heard her voice.

"Finally, you've decided to show up."

I turned slowly.

My mother stood at the base of the spiraling staircase, clad in an elegant black dress. Her blonde hair was styled to perfection, and her sharp gaze swept over me, assessing, evaluating-as if determining whether I was fit to be here.

"Mother." My voice was calm, devoid of warmth or feigned emotions.

She descended the stairs with measured steps, her smile just as manufactured as always. "Welcome back, Isolde."

"Mother."

She approached, and before I could avoid it, she pressed a cold kiss to my cheek.

"I expected you to have better manners after your years in London."

I bit back a smirk. Nothing I did would ever be enough for her.

Before I could respond, the sound of confident footsteps echoed through the hall.

I turned-and saw him.

Vlad Montgomery.

He stood at the entrance, tall and formidable, broad-shouldered and effortlessly refined in a dark suit tailored to perfection. His slate-gray eyes locked onto mine-cold, unreadable.

Handsome. Undeniably so.

He said nothing. He didn't move. He merely stood there, gazing at me as though I were an unwelcome intruder.

I raised an eyebrow slightly, silently challenging his icy demeanor. I already knew he didn't like me, but he wasn't even trying to hide it.

"Vlad, this is my daughter, Isolde," my mother introduced me in a smooth, polite tone, as if presenting a mere acquaintance at a formal gathering.

There was a pause. Two seconds of silence. Then, finally, he spoke-his voice deep and clipped.

"I know."

One word.

No greeting. No pleasantries. No acknowledgment.

Our eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, the air in the room felt heavier.

Then, with a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, I said, "Pleasure to finally meet you."

His jaw tightened slightly, as if my words irritated him.

"You're late."

A flicker of amusement sparked within me. Did he expect me to apologize?

"Oh, my apologies," I drawled, the sarcasm unmistakable. Then, in a cooler tone, I added, "I wasn't aware I was on your schedule."

His eyes narrowed slightly. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

My mother, clearly satisfied with herself, led me toward the lavish living room. She didn't seem to notice how my gaze lingered on the man who had just disappeared behind the door.

There was nothing inappropriate about our exchange. Nothing out of the ordinary.

And yet...

Something about the way he looked at me made something deep within me stir.