That was about more than getting me off, and my assumption is proven accurate when Isabelle mutters a short time later, “My uncle who raised me isn’t really my uncle. I was sold to him when I was six years old.”
Even being aware of her situation doesn’t make it any less shocking to hear it directly from the source. Her father sold her to the highest bidder. He let money choose what monster would raisehischild. No amount of sugarcoating can make those statements any less harmful.
My grip on Isabelle’s waist firms so much I’m afraid I am hurting her when she confesses, “My father hated me so much, he didn’t care who bought me. He just had one stringent requirement…” Her brisk exhale fans my chest before she pushes out in a hurry, “Whoever was the highest bidder had to pay for me in cash.”
I never knew you could hate someone you haven’t met until now.
After propping herself onto her elbows, Isabelle confesses, “My uncle was a good man, Isaac. He saved me from a life of misery. If it weren’t for him, who knows where I would have ended up.”
There is truth in her eyes, but there is also something I can’t read, which prompts me to ask, “Did he…” I can’t finish my question because I’d have to kill someone if she answered in any other way than no, but mercifully, I don’t need to when Isabelle briskly shakes her head.
“No, Isaac. God, no. He wasn’t that type of man. He never touched me like that, I promise.” The weight on my chest lightens when she adds, “He treated me as if I were his daughter. I’ll be forever grateful for the day he came into my life.” Either blinded by lust or needing to get it off her chest, she blurts out without notice, “My father is Vladimir Popov.”
I freeze, aware this is the perfect time to bring up Callie but also mindful about the numerous cautions I’ve been given about doing exactly that. I’m playing on a field I’ve never played on before. The rules are different, and the law most men follow don’t enter the equation this time around, so although I can be confident in my declaration that I will keep Isabelle safe, it is a lot harder to do for a child on the other side of the country whose care is not yet in my hands.
Furthermore, money isn’t what is at stake here.
Not even my reputation is on the line.
It is my sanity I’ve tossed into the mincer, and Isabelle’s is right there with mine. So, since caution is the only thing I can exert right now, it’s what I use when I smirk at Isabelle like her confession means nothing to me before I tuck her in for a restless yet still energy-replenishing sleep.
Regretfully, I can’t join her. After waiting for Isabelle’s breathing to regulate, I slip out of bed and head to my downstairs office to open a file I should have perused months ago. It isn’t Isabelle’s. It is the one Hunter compiled on the man who purchased her. I couldn’t stomach the idea of reading about years of abuse, so I hid it in the bottom of my home office drawer and pretended it didn’t exist, but Isabelle’s assurance her uncle was a good man has me changing tactics.
Perhaps there’s something in her uncle’s file that will assist me in being successful in my bid to purchase Callie. If there isn’t, maybe it will disclose the origin of the foreign feeling I’ve been experiencing since our romp in the bathroom this morning.
I thought Isabelle was making me forget my grief, where, in reality, she’s reminding me about the things I let die while mourning—most particularly, my heart.
47
“Ihad Regan look over the documents you had Mother forward her.” I hear my father sit up during my comment, but he remains as quiet as a church mouse. “Although there are a handful of issues concerning the construction contract, it seems like something Holt Enterprises could be interested in endorsing.” When he sucks in a shocked breath, I quickly add, “But projects like this take a lot of time and effort, which I’m not convinced she deserves from neither you nor me.”
“Isaac.”
His stern tone would usually make me proud, but today, it raises my hackles instead. “Just answer one question. If her project didn’t need funding, would she be in contact with you right now?”
His silence tells me everything I need to know.
“That’s what I thought.”
He huffs down the line. “But that doesn’t change the outcome of the briefing. You said it was a good project.”
“It is. It could help thousands, but—”
“No, Isaac. No buts. Who your mother is to me or what she has done to me doesn’t change anything. She is your mother. She gave birth to you. That alone not only entitles her to your respect, but it also enforces it.” I’m about to remind him that blood doesn’t make you family, but before I can, he gets one over me. Don’t worry, I’m shocked too. “You accredit Nicholas with saving your life, but you’ve not once considered what your mother went through to make that happen. She carried a genetically modified child for you. No one knew the success you were going to have back then. She hardly knows about it now, but she still did that for you.” He pauses before he corrects himself. “Forus.”
“She doesn’t love you, Dad. Why can’t you understand that? She craves possessions, money, and social status.”All the things Isabelle doesn’t have the faintest interest in.
I’m stumped of a reply when he mutters, “Which she had absolutely none of when she gifted me two of the greatest, most humbling gifts of my life.” He takes a moment to get his emotions in check before he mutters, “Our years were short, Isaac, but we got plenty out of them.” He doesn’t need to mention Nick and me. I know who he’s referencing. “I will never hate her for giving me you, just like she will never hate you for making her give us Nick. She loves you, Isaac, she just doesn’t know how to express that.” My eyes drop to the charity business proposal in front of me when he adds, “Perhaps this is her way of trying to make amends. She knows how much these types of projects mean to you, and although it is a small step, it’s better than none.”
My mother is trying to get a plastic surgery clinic off the ground. Like most people, when someone mentions plastic surgery, I instantly thought about breast enhancements and rhinoplasty. Although the privately funded clinic will still perform surgeries like that, for every ten patients it charges, it will perform one pro-bono case with far more significant enhancements—burn victims, children born with cleft palates and no medical insurance, and even a handful of gender reassignment cases were presented in the briefing.
The benefits a clinic like this could add to the community far outweighs my worries my mother is attempting to take my father on another row down misery lane, but I can’t ignore years of intuitiveness. The last time I did that, the remorse choking me almost won.
Confident his dislike of meddlers will get him back on my side of the fence, I disclose, “She’s been speaking with Clara.”
“I know,” my father confesses, half amused, half frustrated. “But only because she can’t get the news directly from the source.”
I scoff. “She has my number.”
