Chapter 2 Old Walls,

The guest list for a "small welcome dinner" was laughable.

Dozens of the city's elite filled the Vaughn estate's grand dining hall, their polished laughter bouncing off crystal chandeliers and mirrored walls. The room smelled of expensive perfume and carefully curated power.

Isabella sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, her posture perfect, her smile unreadable. Celeste, of course, occupied the head. She toasted gracefully to "new beginnings" with the poise of a queen-but her eyes never left her sister.

Isabella barely touched her food. Her gaze wandered the room instead, scanning the familiar faces. Some she recognized from her childhood, others from glossy magazines and business articles. And then-

Her fingers froze around her wine glass.

Damien Carter.

He stood near the bar, speaking to a group of journalists and business execs. Broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed, with that same intense gaze she remembered-except now, it was older. Harder. More skeptical.

He hadn't been invited here by chance.

"You seem distracted," Celeste's voice purred beside her.

Isabella turned slowly, her face cool. "I was just admiring the guest list. You've done well keeping vultures well-fed."

Celeste's smile didn't falter. "I thought it would be nice for you to see familiar faces. Comforting, in a way."

Isabella leaned closer. "Damien Carter is many things, but comforting is not one of them."

Celeste tilted her head, eyes glittering. "He's a respected journalist now. Cleaned up nicely since your little... fallout, don't you think?"

Isabella's jaw tensed. "You invited him on purpose."

Celeste sipped her wine. "Maybe I just wanted to remind you what real scrutiny looks like."

Their stare held for one taut second too long before Celeste turned her attention back to the table, laughing politely at a joke from a board member.

Isabella pushed back from her chair and stood.

"I need air," she said to no one in particular.

She walked through the arching hallway into the open garden, the night breeze cool against her skin. Crickets hummed softly, and the garden lights glowed warm beneath the manicured trees. For a moment, she let herself breathe.

Then-footsteps behind her.

"You always did vanish during parties," a low voice said.

She didn't need to turn. "You always did follow."

Damien stepped beside her, hands in his pockets, that ever-present calm wrapped in careful curiosity.

"You look well," he said.

Isabella glanced at him. "I'd say the same, but I'd be lying. You look tired."

He chuckled. "You haven't changed."

"And you have." She folded her arms. "What are you doing here, Damien?"

"I could ask you the same."

"I live here."

"Again."

Their gazes locked. It wasn't hostile-just layered. Complicated. Too much had been left unsaid between them.

"You left without a word," he said.

"You printed stories without the truth."

He nodded slowly, accepting the jab. "Fair."

She turned away, looking out at the dark hedges. "Did Celeste invite you?"

"She did," he said. "Said it was a chance to see the family again. I figured there was more to it."

"There always is."

A pause.

Then Damien asked, "Why are you really back, Isabella?"

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she walked over to a stone bench and sat, her fingers tracing the edge of her wine glass.

"Do you believe in unfinished business?" she asked quietly.

He stayed standing, watching her closely. "I do."

"So do I." She looked up at him. "Something's not right, Damien. About my father. About everything."

His expression changed-just slightly. The journalist flickered behind his eyes.

"Do you think it was Celeste?"

Isabella didn't blink. "I think Celeste knows more than she ever said."

The air thickened between them.

Damien stepped closer. "Then tell me what you know."

She looked away. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't trust you," she said simply. "Not anymore."

Silence stretched between them.

He nodded. "Then let me earn it back."

She met his gaze again-this time, a crack in her mask. Just the smallest one.

"Do you really think you can?" she asked.

Damien didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small notepad. "You're not the only one digging, Isabella. I never stopped."

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the garden with her pulse quickening and her past pressing in from all sides.

She stared after him, heart pounding.

Maybe she had come back for answers.

But she wasn't sure she was ready for the ones he might find.