Chapter 150
LEVI
The rest of the evening stretched on like an endless performance—every smile rehearsed, every gesture choreographed beneath the glittering chandeliers. Laughter rose and fell, champagne flutes clinked in rhythm, and the string quartet played as though the night itself depended on their bow strokes.
Isabella stayed close at first, her hand slipping easily into mine as I guided her from guest to guest—business partners, acquaintances, friends of the family. She carried herself gracefully, poised, even when faced with people who looked at her a little too long, or with curiosity sharp enough to cut. Mrs. Sebastian, in particular, stared at her longer than the rest, assessing, probing. Isabella shifted under the weight of it—her smile tight at the corners, her laugh just a shade too light. It was the first time she faltered in her façade that night.
No one else noticed— But I did.
Her fingers trembled faintly in mine. She tried to hide it, lifting her chin, curving her lips into something that passed for confidence, and for the most part, she succeeded. To everyone else, charmed by her beauty, nothing seemed amiss. But I felt the truth in her hand—the soft tremor she couldn’t suppress.
So I let her slip away. Quietly, without question, back toward the comfort of her siblings. It was the kind of mercy a man who cared about his partner should grant her in a room like this—space to breathe, space to retreat from the sharks circling in dresses and suits.
Even so, I wanted her near, always. She was flawless tonight—her voice, soft and lilting when she dared to speak; her face, luminous beneath the chandeliers; her presence, magnetic even in silence. She was the kind of woman who made every other conversation feel like static.
But the night wore on regardless. Everyone had someone to occupy them, to sip from the finest bottles of champagne, to laugh at polite jokes, to be entertained by the music drifting from the stage. For a time, I allowed myself to be carried into the same tide, engaged in mindless chatter about projections and marketing offers at Mrs. Sebastian’s table.
That was when my father appeared at my side.
“A second,” I told Mrs. Sebastian, rising from my chair without waiting for her nod of approval.
My father’s expression was unreadable when I reached him, but I could feel the tension rising from him. “Julio has asked that we move the party over to his,” he said. “I tried to get out of it, but I couldn’t say no. He’s our most critical investor in the new project. That airline deal cannot move forward without his support, and other investors are still dragging their feet on the expansion.”
I forced a slow inhale, steadying myself as the knot coiled sharp and tight in my gut. Julio.
His name cut deeper than it should have. Not because of business—though his money ran through many of our ventures like blood through veins, vital, inescapable—but because of Jenna.
Jenna.
The betrayal still burned when I let myself think of it. Not the loss of her—that, I had stomached at once and gotten over easily, replaced with someone a hundred times better. It was the audacity. The insult.
I had tried to forget, but now the memory surged back—her with that bastard Julio.
Julio—cordial once, almost a friend—had crossed lines he knew were mine. The memory of walking in on them together still seared like a wound that refused to heal.
And now, to see him tonight? To sit at his table, shake his hand, pretend nothing had ever passed between us? My jaw tightened. My pulse throbbed.
Julio owed me nothing—I knew that. But once, we had been close, bound not just by business but by history. His father and mine had built bridges together, cemented alliances. We were supposed to inherit that bond. Julio knew that. And he had to have known Jenna was mine.
Perhaps that was the point. A rivalry he’d nursed silently, always hidden beneath his charm. Perhaps every smile, every toast, every deal we signed had carried a shadow I’d refused to see.
My jaw clenched, teeth grinding against the bitter taste of memory. I searched for words, for some excuse to tell my father I wouldn’t go. But nothing came. What could I say? That I had plans—plans that involved Isabella, the way her dress would fall at her feet, no... the way I would rip it off… it was my money, after all… the heat of her body against mine, the night that should have been ours and ours alone?
I couldn’t tell him that. Nor could I tell him about Jenna’s betrayal. Not that I didn’t trust him, but we simply didn’t share that kind of relationship. Even after my accident had brought us closer, there was still a ledge between us.
My hesitation lingered too long. My father’s gaze cut through me, sharp, perceptive. “You know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important,” he said quietly, reading my silence.
I forced a nod.
His hand pressed firm against my shoulder, the gesture both grounding and commanding. “Thank you, my son. I promise—I will make it up to you.”
Before I could say more, his voice rose above the music, booming through the air with the weight of command. Crystal stilled mid-clink, laughter died in throats, every head turned toward him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his glass lifted high, catching the chandelier’s glow, “thank you for honoring our invitation!”
He spoke on, but I barely heard him. My eyes searched for Isabella.
When I found her, she wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at my father—her posture stiff, her lips pressed tight. Unease coiled through her, visible in the way her shoulders pulled inward, in the flicker of her eyes, as though she already knew something I didn’t.
And for the first time that night, I felt it— a warning. Quiet. Heavy.
Something about this wasn’t right.
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