He led her to his study. Isabella braced herself for the termination. Instead, Max opened a drawer, pulled out a packaged white dress shirt, and tossed it to her.
“Change,” he said simply. “Wine irritates the skin if it dries.”
Isabella stared at the shirt. “You’re not going to fire me?”
Max turned to look out the window, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Next time, don’t leave a handprint. It’s tedious to explain to her father, who happens to be my business partner.”
That night, sleep was impossible. Isabella lay in the guest quarters, her mind racing. At 1:00 AM, she gave up, pulled on a cardigan, and wandered the silent halls. She found herself at the door to the wine cellar.
She descended the spiral stone stairs, the air growing cool and scented with oak. At the far end, a single lamp glowed. Max was sitting in a leather armchair, a bottle of vintage red open beside him. But he wasn’t drinking. He was reading a thick, hardcover book.
“Can’t sleep?” His voice rumbled from the shadows.
Isabella startled. “I could ask you the same.”
Max looked up. In the dim light, he looked older, the armor of the “CEO” stripped away to reveal a tired man. “I haven’t slept well since my brother died.”
Isabella stepped closer. She recognized the book in his hands. Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine.
“You studied medicine?” she asked softly.
Max looked at the book, running a thumb over the spine. “I did. Final year. I wanted to be a surgeon. I wanted to fix things that were broken.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Then Jonathan died in an accident, and my father needed an heir to run the corporation. I had to come home and trade the scalpel for the fountain pen.”
Isabella sat in the chair opposite him. “I understand that. The shift. My brother, Miguel… he was sixteen. He died in a crash while working to help pay our rent. I held him when he died.”
Max looked at her, his guard completely down. “How old were you?”
“Eighteen. It was the day before my birthday. I haven’t celebrated a birthday since.”
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the shared silence of two people who knew the weight of duty and loss. Max poured a second glass of wine and slid it to her.
“Jonathan would have liked you,” Max said. “He liked people who weren’t afraid.”
“I’m not fearless,” Isabella whispered into her glass. “I’ve just been afraid for so long that I ran out of energy for it.”
Max’s eyes dropped to her shoulder, where the cardigan had slipped. “That scar. I saw it the first day. Who did that?”
Isabella stiffened. She pulled the fabric up. “Ancient history.”
“Tell me.” It wasn’t a command; it was a request.
Isabella looked into his grey eyes and saw patience. “My ex-husband. Derek. We were married at twenty-two. He… he changed. First words, then shoving. That scar is from a glass table. Twelve stitches.”
Max’s hand clenched around his glass, his knuckles turning white. “Where is he now?” The temperature in the cellar seemed to drop.
“I don’t know. I ran to Chicago. Stayed off the grid. Lived like a ghost for three years. I was terrified he’d find me.” She took a breath, lifting her chin. “But I’m done running. I came home for my mom. I won’t let him dictate my life anymore.”
Max stood up. He walked over to her and extended a hand. “You are safe here, Isabella. As long as you are under my roof, no one will touch you.”
Isabella took his hand. It was warm and surprisingly gentle.
“It’s late,” Max said softly, checking his watch. “It’s 2:30 AM. We should both try to sleep.”
He walked her to her room door. “Sleep well, Isabella.”
She nodded and slipped inside.
In the hallway, Max pulled out his phone. He dialed Tony. “I want a full background check on a man named Derek Manning. Isabella’s ex-husband. I want to know everything—outstanding warrants, debts, tax filings. And I want it by morning.”
Max hung up. He didn’t know why her pain made him want to burn the world down, but he knew Derek Manning was going to regret ever being born.
The night of the launch arrived two days later. The estate was transformed—thousands of candles, white roses, a string quartet playing softly.
Isabella was in the ballroom, checking the place settings in her work clothes, when Sophia, Max’s younger sister whom she had befriended, grabbed her arm.
“You are not wearing denim tonight. Max invited you as a guest.”
“What? No, I’m working—”
“Non-negotiable.” Sophia dragged her upstairs. She pulled out a sleek black dress. “It was mine, never worn. It’ll fit you perfectly.”
An hour later, Isabella stood at the top of the grand staircase. The black dress hugged her curves, the lace sleeves adding a touch of mystery. Her hair was swept up, exposing her neck.
She descended the stairs. Max was at the bottom, holding a glass of champagne. He looked up.
The glass paused halfway to his mouth. He stared at her, drinking her in. For a moment, the room disappeared. He wasn’t the billionaire tycoon; he was just a man looking at a woman who took his breath away.
He stepped forward, offering his hand. “You look stunning,” he murmured.
Isabella took his hand, electricity arcing between them. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“I wanted you here. Beside me.”
Across the room, Vanessa Thornton watched, her eyes narrowing with jealousy.
The evening was a blur of introductions and polite conversation. Max kept Isabella close, introducing her to business partners not as “the help,” but as a friend of the family.
Then came the main event. Max took the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “Tonight, we launch Rosso d’Oro. But first, a toast with a bottle from our private reserve. A one-hundred-year-old vintage, opened specially for this occasion.”
Tony brought out the dusty bottle in a glass case. The crowd murmured in appreciation. Max opened it with surgical precision. He poured a small amount to taste.
He swirled it, sniffed it, and his face went dark.
“The wine is spoiled,” he said, his voice low but amplified by the silence. “It smells of vinegar.”
A gasp went through the crowd.
“I know who did it!” Vanessa’s voice rang out. She stepped forward, pointing a manicured finger at Isabella. “I saw her! The maid’s daughter! She was sneaking around the cellar last night! She did it to spite me!”
All eyes turned to Isabella. She felt the blood drain from her face.
“That’s a lie!” Isabella cried. “I didn’t touch anything!”
“Is it?” Vanessa sneered. “Everyone knows your father was a thief who stole from this family twenty years ago. It’s in your blood. You wanted to sabotage Max!”
The guests whispered. The accusation about her father hit hard—a secret Rosa had only just confessed to Isabella days ago. How did Vanessa know?
Max remained calm on stage. “You saw her, Vanessa?”
“Yes! I went down to check on the wine around 4:00 AM, and I saw her running out!” Vanessa lied, smiling triumphantly.
Max nodded slowly. “Tony. The tablet.”
Tony handed Max an iPad. Max connected it to the large projection screen behind him.
“This estate has security cameras in every room,” Max said coldly. “Including the cellar. Let’s review the footage.”
He tapped the screen. “Here is the footage from 2:00 AM to 2:30 AM.”
The video played. It showed Isabella and Max sitting together, talking, laughing, and drinking. It showed them leaving together at 2:30 AM, the lights turning off. The cellar was empty.
“And now,” Max said, his voice dropping, “let’s look at 4:00 AM.”
