It’s an interesting conversation that keeps me enthralled in Isabelle for hours, and for once, she has her clothes on.
45
After loading the dishwasher with plates coated in taco sauce, I turn it on, snatch a bottle of wine out of the refrigerator to replenish our empty glasses, then return to the living room where Isabelle and I have been convening for the past hour.
This afternoon has been oddly different from how our day started. I haven’t had the urge to bang my chest once, and anyone who knows me would tell you that’s a rarity. I’m not egotistical. I just have no shame promoting myself and the good I’ve done the past six years, but despite that, neither my ego nor myself came up many times the past four hours. Isabelle and I talked about life, family, and aspirations. And for once, I find myself enthralled enough in the conversation to be an active participant.
I bore easily. It was one of my many worries during my relationship with Ophelia. Nothing held my interest for long, and although we were together and an official couple, we had a lot of interests outside of our relationship that made the niggle of doubt less obvious.
Don’t misconstrue. I never cheated on Ophelia—I’m not that type of man—and I did love her, but I can’t recall a single time where we spent hours together in the same room, and I didn’t hunt for an excuse to leave.
The opposite can be said for Isabelle. I don’t want this day to end, and only a portion of the memory wanting to anchor me here was the time Isabelle’s tight pussy sucked at my cock, begging for my cum.
After shaking off the thought that I’m being a sentimental schmuck like Cormack, I devote my focus to Isabelle, who is standing next to the mantel, looking at a collection of photo frames I have there.
“Who is this man?” she asks with quirked brows.
I grin about Nick’s aversion to having his picture snapped by anyone other than the paparazzi before accepting the frame Isabelle is thrusting my way. “That’s my brother, Nick.”
Isabelle’s already bemused expression amplifies even more. It is a common response any time someone outside my family is introduced to Nick. He got my father’s blond hair and blue eyes. I borrowed most of my mother’s traits. I like to say we only look similar, but our morals are on opposing ends of the field.
“He is my brother. There’s no doubt in my mind.” While placing Nick’s photograph back onto the mantel, I consider ways of using our conversation to gauge Isabelle’s response to the secret I’ve been keeping. For all I know, she could be aware her father sells his children for profit.
With there being no easy way to slide into a conversation of this depth, I keep things as simple as possible. “Do you have any siblings?”
Panic flashes through Isabelle’s eyes for barely a second before she shuts it down. She knows something about her family lineage, but I’m lost as to how far her knowledge extends.
When big shakes hampering her tiny frame have me fretful she’ll fall, I sit on the leather sofa before gesturing for her to join me. She shakes for an entirely different reason when I pull her to sit on my lap instead of the spare seat next to me, but with her desires once again falling victim to my prey, she opens up like we’ve known each other a lot longer than we have.
If she knew how much I’ve been watching her the past four months, she’d understand why.
“I have siblings, but half of them probably don’t remember me, and the other half don’t know I exist.”
When she chokes on the last half of her sentence, I assure her the worry in her voice is unnecessary. “You don’t have to say any more, but I’m ready to listen once you feel comfortable.”
After smiling in thanks for my offer, she discloses, “My mom fell in love with the wrong man.” Her eye roll increases my belief she’s in the dark about her family lineage, but her next confession has me wondering if her nonchalant reply is how she protects herself. “My father was already married and had a handful of kids with his wife and mistresses by the time they met.” An angry flare passes through her impressive eyes when she says, “He promised my mom a lavish life if she’d give up her current lifestyle and become his mistress. Because my mom grew up in a family living well below the poverty line, and she was only seventeen, she readily agreed.” Her chest deflates like a balloon. “Instead of a life of luxury, my mom got a long list of false promises.”
I wipe away the tear that splashes onto her cheek instead of doing what I really want to do—catch the first flight to Vegas.
“She got pregnant with me not long after they got together, and that’s when her life spiraled out of control.” Nothing but pain radiates in her voice when she admits, “My father preferred to have sons, and since I was born a girl, he despised me on sight.” After a swallow too quick to relieve her throat of dryness, she stammers out, “My mom d-died of a drug overdose when I was six years old.”
Hugo disclosed she was six when she was sold. So instead of sheltering his daughter from the pain of losing a parent, her father pushed her away as if she was worthless.
My mother’s morals are misguided, and she always puts herself first, but even she came to the plate for me when I was sick. That is a parent’s job. They’re meant to shelter their children from harm.
My belief I couldn’t do that is what led me to my decision six years ago. My wish for revenge had me convinced I was my mother’s child, and I’d never care for someone more than myself.
Isabelle turned that on its head, and Callie will wholly upend it.
The heaviness on my chest almost pulls me under when Isabelle mutters, “My father didn’t want me, and his wife didn’t know I existed, so I was… umm… ahh…”
She knows she was sold.
She fucking knows.
Yet here she sits, perfectly unblemished.
If that doesn’t enlighten you to how spectacular she is, nothing will.
