Inside the Hilton—Surveillance Room
The hotel's camera screens glowed in the dim room. On one of the largest monitors, a woman with messy hair was seen running down the fire escape barefoot, two heels clutched like weapons in her hand. She kept glancing behind her, as if she expected demons—or reporters—to materialize at any second.
Vincent Moretti let out a surprised whistle. "Never thought Averton City's number one socialite would run like a fugitive at dawn. Quite a sight."
Victor Steele didn't answer. He stood beside him, tall and expressionless, watching the screen with eyes that seemed darker than usual.
Vincent's grin froze instantly. He silently put his hands behind his back, like a soldier awaiting orders.
The footage showed her stumbling from the seventeenth floor all the way to the first—legs trembling, one hand pressed to the railing for balance.
Finally, Vincent cleared his throat. "President, should we inform security downstairs? She hasn't paid for the presidential suite."
Victor Steele raised an eyebrow slightly. "No need. Just record the debt."
He blinked. Record the debt? That didn't sound like the president being generous—that sounded like the president planning something.
Before he could ask further, Victor Steele's voice cut through the room.
"Vincent. I want every document related to the cooperation between the Hughes Group and the Cruz family. On my desk in five minutes."
"Yes, President."
*
Outside the Cruz family Villa
The moment Isabella stepped through the gates of her family's villa, she noticed the four black cars parked in neat rows in the courtyard. Luxury sedans—each belonging to the Hughes, family.
Her heart sank.
Great. Not home for one night and the world collapses.
She slipped inside quietly, opening the front door just an inch to listen.
Inside, deep voices echoed through the living room.
"Ethan, we must think long-term," an elderly voice said firmly—Derek Hughes, the Hughes Group's Chairman, and Brandon's grandfather. A man the entire city feared offending.
Ethan Cruz, her father, sounded smaller than she had ever heard him. "Yes, sir, it's all my fault. My two daughters have brought shame to your family."
"Nonsense," Anthony Hughes, Brandon's father, sighed. "I raised a disappointing son. Brandon is responsible too. It's regrettable we've come like this today."
Isabella exhaled slowly, bracing herself. She hadn't expected the broken engagement to blow into a full family confrontation within hours. And hearing her family's humiliation laid out like an autopsy made her chest ache.
She hesitated—step inside, or quietly escape to her room upstairs?
But the answer came from behind her.
"Oh? So the eldest daughter of the Cruz family, who couldn't bother to come home last night, finally returns?"
Brandon's voice was cold. Bitten off. Sharp enough to cut skin.
She didn't have to turn around to know the expression on his face—resentment simmering under forced calm, eyes narrowed in judgment.
She forced herself not to react. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
She stepped forward.
But before she could cross the threshold, a hand clamped around her arm.
Hard.
Brandon pulled her back. "Where were you?"
Her patience snapped in a quiet, controlled way. She took a deep breath, composed her face into a stiff, perfect smile, and looked him in the eye.
"Brandon," she said softly, "now that we've broken off the engagement—and all of Averton City has heard the news—does it still concern you where I go or don't go?"
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He hated her calmness—hated that he couldn't read her emotions—hated that she didn't crumble like he expected her to.
She simply held his gaze with polite indifference, as if they were strangers at a business meeting.
He gritted his teeth. "Isabella, you really don't know what's good for you."
Isabella smiled—a small, controlled curve of her lips—and peeled Brandon's hand off her arm. Her movements were elegant, practiced, almost dismissive. "Brandon, we're the same."
She turned her back, ready to walk through the door.
But Brandon wasn't done humiliating her.
In one quick, angry motion, he grabbed the back of her collar and yanked her toward him. The force nearly made her choke.
His voice, sharp and poisoned by rage, lashed out behind her like a whip.
"So this is it? The Cruz family's eldest daughter can't even stay home for one night. Can't wait a single day after breaking off the engagement before running off to play around?"
He leaned closer, breath hot with accusation. "That's why you're coming back at this hour, isn't it?"
Then he spat the words she never thought he would dare to say.
"Isabella, you acted pure for years. But I didn't know you were such a cheap little sl*t."
For half a second, the world went soundless—until someone inside the villa roared.
"Brandon! You ungrateful brat! What are you saying?" It was Anthony, his father, furious.
Isabella tore herself free, smoothing her collar with stiff fingers. Her expression remained calm, but her knuckles were white.
Before she could say anything, a frantic female voice rushed forward.
"Oh my God! Isabella, what happened to you last night? Why didn't you come home? We were all so worried!"
Chloe—his father's mistress—ran toward her dramatically, reaching out as if to hug her. But Isabella stepped away, her polite smile returning instantly.
"No need, Chloe. I'm fine."
But the moment Isabella stepped through the door, her stepmother suddenly raised her voice—loud enough for every person in the living room to hear.
"Why is her skin red and purple everywhere? Isabella, did you get into a fight last night?"
Instant silence.
Twelve pairs of eyes turned to Isabella's exposed skin—faint bruises peeking from her collar, marks on her arms, on her neck.
Some stared in shock.
Some in embarrassment.
Some—like Vanessa—stared with poorly disguised delight.
"Oh my God, mom... those marks are they..." Vanessa gasped from the staircase, pretending to be horrified.
Ethan's face twisted red. "You shameful girl! Where did you go?!"
His voice cracked with fury. Their family was already hanging by a thread—and now this. Her bruises were exactly the kind of evidence the Hughes family didn't want to see.
"You—! You—!" He sputtered, too angry to form words.
But Anthony stepped forward instantly, gently placing a firm hand on Ethan's shoulder to hold him back.
"Brother Ethan, calm down. They're children. Let them settle their own mess."
He glanced at Isabella with something like pity—or calculation. "Besides, in this matter, Brandon was at fault first. Everyone knows it. Don't be too harsh on the girl."
His tone was soft. But his eyes were not.
The Hughes family had always preferred Isabella. She was legitimate, well-raised, and dignified. Vanessa, an illegitimate child, had always been beneath consideration.
But things had changed.
Isabella hadn't come home last night. The bruises on her skin said everything without words.
Anthony sighed dramatically. "Forget the past. Let's discuss preparing for Brandon and Vanessa's engagement."
Chloe brightened so fast it was almost laughable. Vanessa lowered her head, pretending to hide her excitement—though her smile trembled with how hard she was fighting it.
Brandon looked at Isabella again. Searching her face. Searching for anything—hurt, shame, jealousy, panic—anything that would prove she wasn't made of stone.
But she only stood there quietly, back straight, face serene, as none of this concerned her.
Her stillness made him furious.
He took two steps toward her, eyes glaring.
"Isabella," he growled, "come talk to me now."