The morning light seeped through the curtains, brushing Isabella's face with a soft golden glow. She stirred, instinctively reaching out for the warmth that had stayed in her arms all night. But her hand touched only the cool sheet.
A flicker of disappointment shadowed her expression. She sat up slowly, running a hand through her messy dark hair, the memory of Ava's breathing against her chest still lingering like a secret she didn't want to lose.
She dragged herself out of bed and stepped into the shower. The water cascaded down her toned frame, washing away the night but not the ache of waking up alone. She wanted Ava still there—confused or not, in her arms, safe.
When Isabella emerged, she dressed carefully—not like she did for everyone else, but as though she had something to prove. She pulled on a fitted white shirt, rolling the sleeves up to her elbows, slipped into black tailored trousers that hugged her lean figure, and added a sleek leather belt. A silver chain glinted at her neck, and her boots clicked softly against the floor. Her reflection in the mirror looked sharp, masculine yet undeniably alluring. A man's casual elegance carved into a woman's body.
Just as she adjusted the cuffs of her shirt, a knock echoed at the door.
"Come in," Isabella called.
Ruth stepped inside, looking hesitant.
"Where's Ava?" Isabella asked immediately, her voice firmer than she meant it to be.
Ruth shifted. "She's… she has a visitor."
Isabella's brows pulled together. "Visitor? Which visitor?"
"I think, a friend."
Her jaw tightened. "Male or female?"
Ruth exhaled slowly. "…Male."
Without another word, Isabella strode past her. Ruth's eyes widened—she knew exactly what Bella was capable of when her protective instincts kicked in.
"Bella!" Ruth called, hurrying after her. Isabella stopped abruptly, making Ruth almost bump into her.
"Where are they?" Isabella's voice was low, almost dangerous, but her eyes burned with something Ruth recognized—fear of losing Ava.
"What are you up to?" Ruth asked cautiously, scanning Bella's face.
Isabella's lips curved faintly, though it was humorless. "I just want to know who she's with. Nothing else."
Ruth sighed. "Fine. Follow me."
She led Isabella quietly through the back path of the house until they reached the secluded waterfall that glimmered in the sunlight. The sound of rushing water filled the air, birds perched on branches above. And there—on the grass beside the sparkling stream—sat Ava, her hair catching the morning rays like strands of gold, her laughter soft and genuine. Next to her was a young man, leaning a little too close, talking animatedly, making Ava smile in ways that made Bella's chest tighten.
Isabella froze. She wanted to storm forward, to pull Ava away, but Ruth held her back, tugging her arm gently.
"You are here to just watch," Ruth whispered.
Isabella's jaw worked silently as she stood still, her fists unconsciously curling. Every instinct screamed at her to interfere. She wasn't used to seeing Ava this way—with someone else.
"You know…" Ruth murmured, studying Bella with a sly smile. "I think you're beginning to have feelings for your friend."
Isabella's head snapped toward her, eyes sharp. "No," she said too quickly. "She's my best friend. I just want to protect her."
Ruth raised a brow, tilting her head knowingly. "Protect her?" She chuckled softly. "Bella, being a tomboy isn't enough of an excuse. You're falling for her. And when your dad finds out, he's going to die of a heart attack. Two girls, his daughter in love with her best friend? He won't survive it."
Isabella's lips twitched into the faintest smirk, though her chest felt heavy. She leaned closer to Ruth and whispered, "Only if you tell him."
Ruth's laugh broke the tension, but Isabella's eyes returned to the waterfall, to Ava's glowing smile. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. She had told Ruth she wanted to protect Ava—but deep down, she knew the truth was slipping through her fingers.
It wasn't just protection.
It was love, raw and undeniable.
And it terrified her.
Isabella's eyes stayed locked on Ava. She couldn't hear the words, but she saw the easy way Ava leaned toward him, her hand resting lightly on his thigh. Something inside her tightened, sharp and unrelenting.
Their eyes met.
Ava froze. Slowly, as though caught doing something she couldn't explain, she drew her hand away and inched back from the boy. Her gaze lingered on Isabella, confused, unsettled. Isabella's stare didn't waver—it was steady, piercing, almost too much to bear.
Ruth noticed the shift immediately. She nudged Isabella with a sigh and whispered, "Why are you scaring her?"
Isabella said nothing. She only flicked her eyes to Ruth for a second before turning back to Ava. Her chest rose and fell, but her expression remained unreadable.
Just then, another servant approached quickly. "Miss Isabella," she said with a respectful bow. "Your father wishes to see you in his office."
Isabella's breath caught. A small wave of nerves rushed through her chest, though she had known this moment would come. Facing her father was inevitable, but she still wasn't ready, and maybe never would be.
Ruth touched her arm gently. "Bella, don't you think you should change first?" she asked, eyeing the way Isabella stood in her tomboyish clothes.
But Isabella shook her head firmly. "No," she said, her voice steady though her hands trembled faintly. "This is me. And I'm not letting anyone take that from me, not even my dad."
Ruth sighed but didn't argue further. Instead, she followed close behind as Isabella walked toward the large oak doors of her father's office.
At the threshold, Isabella paused. She drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, trying to steel herself. Her knuckles brushed the polished wood once, twice, before she knocked firmly.
"Come in," came her father's deep, steady voice.
Isabella pushed the heavy office door open and stepped inside. Her father and mother were already there, sitting across from each other. The air was tense, thick enough to make her chest tighten.
"Good morning, Dad," Isabella greeted softly.
Adrian's eyes lifted from his desk, and his gaze traveled over her from head to toe. His jaw clenched. His face twisted in disappointment, almost disgust, at the sight of his daughter, the princess of his household, standing there with her dreadlocks tied up like a man's, her clothes loose and unfeminine.
Without hesitation, he spoke coldly, his voice like a final judgment.
"You'll be leaving for your uncle's Catholic boarding school in three days."
The words struck Isabella like a physical blow. She blinked, unsure she had heard him right.
"Dad… are you serious right now?" Her voice cracked as her eyes darted to her mother, silently pleading.
Claire looked weary, her expression already heavy with the battles she had clearly fought before Isabella entered the room. She looked like she'd spent hours trying to change Adrian's mind and had failed.
"Mom… I can't go," Isabella said desperately, her throat tightening. "I don't want to go."
Claire sighed, her voice low but firm as she turned to Adrian.
"Honey, why do you want her so far away from you? Is how she dresses really that bad? Why don't you just accept that she can't be everything we want?"
Adrian shot her a hard look, his hand slamming on the desk.
"You are encouraging her into this delusion of hers!" he snapped, pointing an accusing finger at Isabella from head to toe. "No one will accept a woman like this! She is a princess, not a prince. I should have known from the start—should have corrected her when she was young. Instead, she's grown believing this… this is normal!"
Isabella's eyes stung with tears, but she forced herself not to look away.
"In this country, we don't accept this," Adrian continued, his voice thundering. "Your grandparents will be ashamed to see their princess looking like this. I will not allow it. You will go to that school, and you will learn to be who you are supposed to be."
Claire closed her eyes for a moment, her shoulders slumping, as if the fight had drained all the strength from her.
Isabella's chest rose and fell quickly, her hands curling into fists at her sides. Her uncle—her favorite uncle—was a priest, devoted to strict traditions. She knew what her father was sending her into: a place that would crush her spirit and mold her into something she wasn't.
Her voice trembled as she finally spoke, "Dad… please… don't do this to me."
But Adrian's stern eyes showed no mercy.