CHAPTER TWO
Isabella sat at her one scuffed wooden kitchen table at twilight, the ornate invitation spread before her. The fine paper, embossed with a gold crest that glittered in the light of the single lamp, beckoned her back to a world she’d long since abandoned. Her heart quickened at the crush of memories — some hers, most not: the Juilliard stage, laughter turning to sneer, a public unravelling that had turned her name to ash. Each crease in the invitation was a reminder of the voice from the past, and each word a recollection of the humiliation devouring her soul. She recalled the cool glare of her mother, the profound disappointment that had tracked her every movement since.
The invitation reflected her insecurities in her little, quiet apartment. Her fingers trembled as they traced the elegant script, and Isabella’s mind swam with conflicting desires. On one edge, the glimmering possibility of redemption fluttered like a fragile thread; on the other, the weight of her sins crushed without mercy. They were the remnants of a dream she once tended themselves — an old concert poster, a torn-up violin case in the corner and photographs from a time when her music was praised instead of pilloried. Those memories, acute and rich and relentless, bled into the present in a heady medley of hope and despair.
A knock on the door broke her from a daydream. She paused, startled, momentarily blanking on the invitation. The knock came again, insistent, measured, as if the night itself had a warning to deliver. Isabella rose and tiptoed across the room on her bare feet, her heart hesitating. She stopped before opening the door, her eyes scanning the darkened hallway. I would feel just a figure lingering at the peephole, making terror, knowing that they did not know his face or what they were about to do, but his purpose and caution. The stranger — low, gravelly voice — heard her before she had the chance to speak to inquire about who it was: “Be wary, Isabella. Not all gifts are salvation.” The words hung overhead like a chill breeze, sparking a cocktail of fear and wonder.
“I’d love to,” Isabella pressed the invitation to her chest and slowly closed the door. From then on, the quiet warning echoed in her ears, along with so many repeatings of the embarrassment of years before. Her everybody was quaking in danger of the unknown. It was a tantalizing pitch to reclaim what was once hers but was also tinged with an ominous twist: that to re-enter the world stage might unearth fresh perils. In one breath-stopping, gut-wrenching instant, everything that had led her to this moment in time threatened to either redeem or destroy her all over again.
It was a long, stormy night that involved a lot of talking to herself. In that silence, her small bedroom became a confessional, each whispered doubt and act of rebellion rendered naked. She lay in bed, gazing up at the dark ceiling as the first light of dawn filled the city. The formal invitation sat on her nightstand, a heavy, wordless presence in her sleepless misery. The memory of her public undoing had the added twinge of the prospects of redemption. She remembered the sting of ridicule, the sound of ugly laughter, and the looks of reproach that had followed her for so long. But beneath all that pain was a powerful ember, a small voice that this may be her moment — that not only would she get her career back, but she would get herself back.
Isabella sat up as the dark turned grey just before dawn, fear-free, and she became a determined statue at last. She moved to the small desk wedged beside the window and picked up a pen, her hand steady amid the cyclone within. Slowly, she drafted a response to the invitation. Each word carried the burden of her past and the fragile promise of a future reborn. “True,” she wrote, her name dipping and soaring across the paper like a vow. It simply burned a fire in her heart just writing down the words. The city was coming to life, the thrumming traffic in the distance, the falling rain against the windows a symphonic melancholy.
When the first soft light of dawn sifted across the horizon, her phone rang sharply on the bedside table. Isabella’s heart raced as she grabbed it, and her eyes bulged as she read the new text message. The note, cryptic and cryptic, read: “Are you sure you want to play their game?” The question punctured the quiet of the pre-dawn hours, short and insidious with menace and uncertainty. Isabella’s breath stopped in her throat, the urgency of that question pressing down on her. Eager even, as if the entire universe was daring her to do so, was enticing her with the various pitfalls that lurked this time in the dark. And for a long, suspended moment, she looked at the screen, her imagination racing through scenarios — each a projection of her darkest fears and loftiest desires. The challenge in that message, unvoiced but clear, shook her, hovered at the precipice of a choice that contained both salvation and danger.
Entering Drake Tower felt like walking into another dimension. The morning sun illuminated a sleek glass-and-shiny-marble edifice whose enormity engendered a cast of performance anxiety and intimidation. It overwhelmed her: as she approached the mammoth revolving doors, the city on the other side processing the faint trace of polished wood and artisanal cologne that hung in the air. Embodied in the tall building was wealth, and it held the public at arm’s length, its particulars all designed to impress and frighten. Apprehension: It was an array of contrasting feelings played within Isabella’s heart, the decision she had made earlier echoing with each passing step.
The lobby greeted us like a sumptuous stage. Crystal chandeliers filled the space with soft, ethereal light, while fabulously textured mosaics on the floor reflected it in fantastical patterns. The walls were lined with rich, dark wood panelling, and velvet-upholstered seating areas invited whispered conversation among impeccably dressed patrons. Everything practically shimmered with an unspoken promise of glamour and discretion. Amidst the feathery swirl of conversation, Isabella was a stranger and an intruder, her humble origins exposed in the midst of the lottery of riches.
Suddenly, her eyes were caught by a tall, neatly dressed man up near the grand staircase. Christian Vanderbilt, with his ice-blue eyes raking over the room with an intensity that made even the most polished guests seem inconsequential, stood with his mysterious air of authority. He had a magnetic presence — part guarded charm, part quiet strength, an array of layers yet to be unlocked. The barely visible, small scar on his hand, which was very much there, only added flair to his otherwise cool persona. They met each others’ eyes, and in that instant, a formless recognition passed between them, just seconds, but heavy with a hidden meaning.
Isabella entered this very building, the cobblestone hallway echoing with each step, her breath held back as she crossed the lobby — ghost memories and new beginnings lingered in the hallway of the lobby. But then, around a corner, a bomb of dark shadow flashed in her periphery, a figure slipping behind a narrow corridor as if to avoid detection. The feeling of being watched sent a shiver up her spine. The stylish elegance of Drake Tower was momentarily underlaid with a sense of conspiracy. Every polished surface, every elaborate detail converged into a new, conspiratorial universe, and Isabella could not shake the feeling that someone was watching her entrance with deliberate attention. The base rain tapped a metronomic tattoo as the enigmatic figure wove deep into the course of the building and succumbed to obscurity; imagery of what could be a quagmired Contingent of potential rewards flashing through his thoughts as he pulled clear of the tongue of risk and the taste of near-certain failure.