*COMPLETED*
Isabella Landon isn't the easiest person. With a heavily weighted baggage of past mistakes, decisions worth a river of tears. She still manages to create a decent life around herself. Supporting friends, high paying job and mind free of...
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When Isabella was little, she always dreamed of being grown up. The big world full of endless possibilities. Where no one can say "no" to you because you're someone important. She would view her parents with wide eyes, hopeful glint drowning in the greenery.
Her father couldn't spare a second glance from his phone let alone console the child who very much wanted a hug from him.
She would cling on her mother's leg, begging not to leave with their nanny and bring her together — five years Isabella thought she was grown enough to talk business. After all, she was just like her father.
Not even years later when she looked at the mirrored reflection of herself, she couldn't see past through drunk mess. Eyes glossy, skull felt like being with a chainsaw. She tried pretending nothing is wrong by smoothening a rustled black button-down, a black blazer and slim dress pants. The skinny dress shoe reflecting the dim light of her hotel bedroom.
She gritted her teeth, grabbing the phone and without another look, she marched out through the doors.
Isabella tried hard not to think — to force everything go away. Even drowning two full glasses of whiskey sounded great till they turned to four. Although, headache felt ten times better than a windy numbness in her heart.
"Miss Landon," a young woman flashed a calculated smile. "Limousine is waiting for you. Have a nice evening."
Isabella but back snobby remark, only managing to nod.
The chilled wind crawled onto Isabella's skin, biting painfully once she paused in front of black, E-class Mercedes Benz. She recognised the signature look of the Carlisle company brand.
"Is everything alright, Miss Landon?"
"Yes," Isabella snapped irritated by all these questions. She glared at the older man. "Drive quick."
"Of course, miss." He visibly flinched, squaring away once doors were closed.
Isabella looked around the dark saloon, expensive touches on exterior, spacious and... and fucking Carlisle property. You cannot expect anything less from them. She grabbed the glass what was suited in the mini bar, pouring an amber bourbon.
She hopped that will do its wonders.
Isabella's head rose when she felt the car slowing down. Through the tinted window she saw an expensive, only for eternal pockets filled with wands of money and bodies of nothing hotel. The dinner happened in the restaurant located on the top floor. The penthouse lounge overlooking Portland — a property of no one other than Duncan Carlisle.
