Isabella tilted her head back, refusing to retreat an inch. “I do. You are Maxwell Castellano, my mother’s employer. The man she has devoted twenty years to. But I am not my mother. I came here to ensure your event runs smoothly, not to be a prop in a costume. If you can’t accept that, say the word, and I’ll walk out that door. You can find someone else to manage this chaos.”
Max frowned, the scar on his cheek twitching. He stared at her, analyzing her like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. His gaze dipped momentarily to her shoulder, where the movement of her shirt had revealed the top of her old scar. His eyes darkened, but he said nothing about it.
Instead, he turned to Tony. “Leave us,” he ordered. “All of you.”
Tony started to object. “Sir, I don’t think—”
“Out,” Max cut him off.
The men filed out, the door clicking shut behind them. Isabella stood alone with the most powerful businessman in the city, wondering if she had just made a fatal error.
Max turned his back to her, walking to the window to look out at the grounds. “You have nerve,” he said, his tone surprisingly calm. “It has been a very long time since anyone dared to speak to me like that.”
“Perhaps that’s because no one dares to tell you the truth,” Isabella replied without missing a beat.
Max turned back, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. He walked to a side table and poured a glass of water. “There is a critical event in a few days,” he said. “The launch of our new premium wine label, coupled with a charity auction. Everything must be flawless. Your mother is the only one who knows the logistics of this house intimately.” He looked up. “And now she is incapacitated. I do not have the time to vet a stranger.”
Isabella crossed her arms. “So, you need me.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need anyone. But I will admit your presence is… logically necessary.”
Isabella let out a soft, dry laugh. “Call it what you want. But if you want me to stay, we need to renegotiate.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Renegotiate?”
She stepped closer to the desk. “First, no uniform,” she listed. “Second, I work my way. As long as the results are up to your standard, you don’t micromanage me. And third…” She paused, locking eyes with him. “I want double what you pay my mother.”
Max stared. For a few seconds, his face was a mask of stone. Then, a low, rough sound erupted from his chest. He was laughing. It sounded rusty, like an engine that hadn’t been turned over in years.
“You are bargaining with me,” he said, amusement dancing in his eyes. “In my own house. For a housekeeping position.”
“I’m offering fair terms for a job you just admitted is critical,” she countered. “Take it or leave it.”
Max tilted his head, studying her with genuine fascination. He nodded slowly. “Fine. Double pay. No uniform. Your way. But be warned, Isabella. If anything at this event is less than perfect, I will hold you personally responsible.”
Isabella swallowed, but held her ground. “I don’t need your forgiveness. I just need you to keep your word.”
Max pressed the intercom on his desk. “Maggie? Take Miss Reyes to be briefed. She’s hired. And Maggie… she doesn’t wear the uniform.”
The next two days were a blur of activity. Isabella worked with a precision that stunned the other staff. She didn’t just clean; she organized, she optimized, she commanded. But on the second afternoon, the fragile peace of the mansion was shattered.
Isabella was in the main living room, inspecting a tray of crystal glasses she had just polished, when the front door burst open. A woman swept into the room—tall, blonde, and impeccably dressed in a tight red designer dress. She radiated wealth and arrogance.
She saw Max entering from the hallway and immediately threw her arms around his neck. “Darling!” she exclaimed in a high, sweet voice. “I missed you so much. Why haven’t you called me all week?”
Max stood stiffly, his hands hanging at his sides. He gently removed her hands, his expression cooling. “Vanessa. I’ve been buried in legal work for the merger.”
Vanessa pouted in feigned displeasure. “Too busy for your fiancée?”
Isabella felt a cold jolt in her stomach. Fiancée. Of course. A man like Maxwell Castellano had a designated queen. She turned to leave quietly, but Vanessa’s sharp blue eyes snapped toward her.
“Who is this?” Vanessa asked, her tone dripping with sweetness and poison.
Max glanced at Isabella. “This is Isabella Reyes. Rosa’s daughter. She is filling in.”
Vanessa looked Isabella up and down, sneering at the jeans. “Oh. The maid’s daughter. I thought the help wore uniforms. Why is she dressed like a vagrant?”
Isabella stiffened. She forced a polite smile. “I’m not a servant, ma’am. I’m assisting my mother.”
Vanessa stepped closer, towering in her stilettos. She lowered her voice so only Isabella could hear. “Whatever you are, remember your place. Don’t think a pretty face gives you the right to look at what isn’t yours.”
Isabella met her gaze evenly. “I’m here to work, nothing else.”
Later that afternoon, Vanessa decided to stay for dinner. She sat in the living room, sipping wine and barking orders as if she already owned the place. “You there,” Vanessa called out as Isabella passed by carrying linens. “Pour me another glass of wine.”
Isabella stopped. “There is staff in the kitchen for service,” she replied politely. “I am currently inventorying the linens.”
Vanessa’s eyes narrowed. “I told you to do it. Are you deaf?”
Isabella sighed internally, set the linens down, walked to the sideboard, poured a glass of red, and placed it on the coaster. As she turned to leave, she felt a splash of cold liquid.
Vanessa had “accidentally” flung the wine over Isabella. Red liquid soaked through her white shirt, dripping onto the carpet.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Vanessa said, her voice dripping with malice. “My hand slipped. But it’s fine. You’re used to getting dirty, aren’t you? Like mother, like daughter. Scrubbing floors on your knees is the family legacy.”
Isabella’s hands curled into fists. She could take the insults about her clothes. She could take the wine. But the insult to Rosa—the woman who had broken her back for twenty years to give Isabella a future—snapped something inside her.
Without a conscious thought, Isabella’s hand flew up. The slap cracked through the room like a gunshot.
Vanessa stumbled back, clutching her cheek, eyes wide with genuine shock. “You… you hit me!” she shrieked. “Do you know who I am?!”
“I don’t care who you are,” Isabella said, her voice shaking with rage. “Speak about my mother like that again, and a slap will be the least of your problems.”
“Maxwell!” Vanessa screamed.
Max appeared in the doorway instantly, Tony at his heels. He took in the scene—Vanessa sobbing, clutching her face; Isabella standing defiant, her shirt soaked in wine.
“She hit me!” Vanessa wailed, running to grab Max’s arm. “Fire her! Throw her out! She assaulted me!”
Max looked at Isabella. She didn’t look down. She didn’t apologize. She stood tall, waiting for the judgment.
“Tony,” Max said quietly.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Take Miss Thornton home. She is clearly too emotional to stay.”
Vanessa froze. “What? You’re not punishing her? She hit me!”
Max didn’t even look at his fiancée. His eyes were locked on Isabella. “Tony. Now.”
Tony nodded, firmly guiding a protesting Vanessa out of the room. When they were gone, Max walked over to Isabella.
“Follow me.”
