Chapter 6 Lines in the Marbel

The morning sun poured into the estate like a golden lie.

Everything looked pristine-fresh orchids on the foyer table, white marble floors polished to a gleam, soft piano music drifting from the built-in sound system. It was a picture of elegance and control.

But Isabella saw cracks in everything now.

She moved through the halls like she was walking across broken glass, careful, quiet, but with purpose. The letter from her father was still in her coat pocket, the words carved into her mind like a warning.

Her heels clicked softly as she entered the sunlit atrium.

Celeste stood by the balcony doors, gazing out over the gardens as if she owned the world.

She turned when she heard Isabella. "You're up early."

"I couldn't sleep," Isabella said. "Too many things on my mind."

Celeste's smile didn't falter. "You should try lavender tea. Or peace."

"Peace is expensive in this house."

"Only if you keep trying to stir old ghosts," Celeste replied calmly, walking toward the coffee set on the marble counter. "Cream?"

Isabella declined with a tilt of her head.

They sat opposite each other at the low glass table in the atrium, sunlight casting patterned shadows between them like bars. Celeste poured coffee into delicate porcelain cups-too delicate, like everything else she touched.

"You're unusually quiet," Celeste said, handing her a cup. "Something wrong?"

"I visited the lower archives last night," Isabella said, keeping her voice even. "Found some interesting records. Some very... edited reports."

Celeste's smile thinned, just barely. "Why would you go down there?"

"Because you sealed Dad's study. And I wanted to remember him on my own terms."

Celeste stirred her coffee. "That room is a relic of the past. You're not the only one who lost him."

"No," Isabella said, leaning forward slightly, "but I might be the only one still wondering how."

Celeste's spoon froze for a second-then resumed its slow rotation.

"Don't," she said softly. "Don't start this again."

"This isn't the past, Celeste. It's now. I have reason to believe things weren't what they seemed when he died."

"And what exactly are you accusing me of?"

Isabella didn't blink. "Not yet."

Celeste sat back, her eyes cool. "You left, remember? You weren't here. I handled the press, the funeral, the shareholders, the lawyers. I held everything together while you were-where were you again?"

"Hiding," Isabella said. "From the world. From the grief. From you."

The admission hung in the air.

For a moment, the walls between them wavered.

Then Celeste's mask dropped back into place. "You always did prefer drama over facts."

"I prefer truth over lies."

"You think you're the only one with questions?" Celeste's voice rose just slightly. "You think you're the only one who doubted things? But I had to lead, Isabella. I didn't get the luxury of running."

"No," Isabella said. "You took the luxury of power instead."

Celeste stood suddenly, walking to the balcony, back straight.

"You're digging, Isabella," she said quietly. "And when you dig long enough in this family, you start to bury yourself instead."

"I'm not afraid of dirt," Isabella replied. "I just don't want to drown in it."

Celeste turned, and for the first time, her expression cracked-just a little. Something raw flickered behind her calm.

"I protected you," she said. "Even when it cost me."

"Then why did Dad leave me a letter warning me not to trust anyone-especially family?"

That landed.

Celeste's lips parted-but no words came.

Silence stretched between them, taut as piano wire.

"Whatever you think you're going to find," Celeste finally said, her voice low and dangerous, "just remember-some truths don't set people free. They ruin them."

"Then you've already given me my answer."

Isabella stood, placing the untouched coffee cup back on the table.

Celeste watched her go.

And as Isabella left the room, the faint sound of porcelain cracking filled the silence behind her.