Chapter 21
No.1
She collected herself, her tone becoming brisk. "Something has come up. I need to leave. The repair shop is delivering my motorcycle. Take good care of him. No more spicy food."
"Mommy!" Oliver scrambled from his seat, clinging to her leg. He didn't want her to go.
She gently ruffled his hair. "Be good, sweetheart. I've added your father on WhatsApp. I'll be watching him closely to make sure he treats you properly."
"Okay! But you have to promise to video call me," Oliver beamed, his large, pleading eyes making him look like a hopeful kitten.
Isabella nodded. As she turned to leave, Nathaniel stood and followed her. "I'll walk you out."
Isabella tried to stop him, but Nathaniel was already heading out the door.
Fine.
Her motorcycle was conveniently parked right outside the restaurant. The technician handed her the keys.
She swung her leg over the bike in one fluid motion.
“Wait.” Nathaniel stepped in front of her, his hand closing around her wrist.
No.2
She instinctively tried to pull away, but he was already holding a small bottle of ointment. He gently applied it to her cut with his fingertip.
He was… tending to her injury?
His grip was firm yet careful as he smoothed the cream over her skin. He treated the wound with the reverence of a master artisan handling a priceless artifact. Then, he produced a narrow roll of gauze and wrapped it neatly around her forearm.
“Keep it dry for the next seventy-two hours. Try to minimize use of this hand,” he instructed, his voice a low, resonant murmur that vibrated through her.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm she hadn't felt in years. No one had shown her such deliberate, gentle care since before her world fell apart. The memory of that betrayal five years ago sliced through the moment, cold and sharp. She wrenched her arm back. “Thank you. Take care of Christopher.”
The engine roared to life beneath her. The motorcycle shot forward, a streak of crimson and steel. Her dark hair whipped wildly in the wind, the red dress a defiant banner against the fading light. She was a vision of untamed, breathtaking resolve, seemingly impervious to everything in her wake. Nathaniel’s expression darkened as he watched her disappear.
The tires of her bike crunched on the gravel driveway of Rosewood Manor. Julian Hawthorne was waiting inside, perched on the edge of a sofa, a manila folder resting on his knee.
“The list?” she asked, striding into the room.
“Maxwell is running deep background checks on every name. Results should be in shortly. However,” he said, his tone shifting, “there’s a more pressing issue.” He placed the folder on the coffee table. “Someone is digging. They’re investigating your five years in Africa. Due to an oversight on my part, this photograph was discovered.”
He slid a single photo across the polished surface.
No.3
In it, Isabella stood radiant in a crimson bandeau gown. Beside her was a man of regal bearing, his attire dripping with opulence, every finger adorned with massive, glittering diamond rings. He was presenting her with a diamond the size of a pigeon’s egg.
Her brow furrowed. “This was supposed to be destroyed. If they connect the dots…”
“All other copies were. It seems Harrison Winslow kept one for himself. Sophia Kensington now has it,” Julian stated, closing the folder. “We can silence her. Or buy off every major media outlet to contain it.”
“No. It’s too late for that.” Isabella walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of water. She swirled the liquid, watching it spin. “If she’s found it, then let her play her hand. I just hope she’s prepared for the consequences.” Her voice was deceptively light, laced with a chilling promise of retribution.
Julian’s frown deepened. “You want to expose her ourselves?”
“It’s insignificant.”
That same evening, Twitter erupted.
#IsabellaMontgomery
#IsabellaFireflies
#IsabellaFlawlessFall
No.4
#IsabellaHeels
#Chanel160thAnniversary
#3DHolographicImaging
#AlexanderWhitmoreEatsShit
Six of the top ten trending topics were about Isabella. Clips of her performance were everywhere, transformed into animated GIFs and viral videos on platforms like YouTube, amassing millions of views and an avalanche of praise.
The internet erupted in a frenzy of adoration.
Comments flooded in, each more awestruck than the last.
“OMG! Isabella Montgomery is a goddess! That walk, those legs, her presence…utterly hypnotic! A supermodel reborn!”
“Other models have one good feature. She has them all. Her face, her legs, her aura…every inch of her radiates power. I’m obsessed.”
“Now I get her ‘sit back and watch’ comment. No wonder she took the finale from Victoria. Honestly, Victoria would’ve face-planted in those heels.”
No.5
“Agreed. Isabella owns the stage. Confidence is everything.”
“Didn’t Victoria Kensington trip and look pathetic? Isabella is my queen.”
Netizens crowned Isabella a hero. Even her former critics publicly apologized.
On Alexander Whitmore’s feed, the tone was starkly different.
“Wow. National Husband really has to eat shit on live stream? That’s gonna be disgusting.”
“You had a chance to perform too, right? Be a man and honor the bet. Stream it!”
“No way! Absolutely not! Isabella was just average to me.”
“Be civil. Admit when you’re wrong. She was stunning. Try to negotiate your way out of this.”
“Yeah, eating actual feces is impossible. Surely she’ll accept something else?”
In a luxurious restaurant, Alexander scowled at his phone. He never imagined Isabella would look so commanding, so devastatingly beautiful. His plan had spectacularly backfired.
No.6
He had issued the challenge publicly. As CEO of Whitmore Enterprises, backing out would destroy his credibility. But eating actual waste? The thought was unbearable.
Victoria sat beside him, seething with jealousy as she read the forums. That should have been her on that stage, captivating everyone. Isabella had ruined her reputation with that leaked video. Now she was a laughingstock, forced into hiding.
Worse, she saw the captivated look in Alexander’s eyes as he stared at Isabella’s photos. She couldn’t let that usurper steal her spotlight…or her man.
An idea formed. She lowered her head and began to sob softly. “Alexander, darling… I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. The 3D projection was my idea. I was brainstorming for my finale, and Isabella must have overheard me discussing it with my assistant. To use it against you like this…”
Alexander stared at her, shocked. “The projection was your idea?”
“It was. I spent weeks researching it, perfecting it for my show. You can ask my assistant if you don’t believe me.” Victoria shot a look at her assistant, Sophia, who was hovering nearby, and signaled her over.
Sophia hurried forward. “It’s true, Mr. Whitmore! Miss Kensington worked tirelessly on it. She stayed up for nights—”
“Sophia, don’t,” Victoria interrupted with a choked sob. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t been so careless, she never would have stolen it. Her victory today… it’s because of my work. It’s all my fault.” She cried silently, playing the victim perfectly.
Alexander immediately pulled her into an embrace. “Don’t cry. I don’t blame you. This is Isabella’s fault! I wondered how she could be so clever. She stole your idea! What a shameless, vile woman!”
“Alexander, maybe… maybe I should go to her. She’s my sister. If I beg her, she might let you out of the bet.” Victoria made a move to stand, feigning resolve.
No.7
He held her tighter. “Absolutely not. You are the heiress of the Kensington family. My future wife. You will not debase yourself before that woman. We will find another way. There has to be another way.”
“Of course there is,” a confident, angry voice cut in. “I have information that will destroy Isabella Montgomery.”
Victoria and Alexander looked up to see Sophia Kensington striding toward their table.
“Sophia? What are you talking about?” Victoria asked, feigning confusion.