Chapter 246.

The television was still on when Isabel Dolce arrived at the Sinclair estate.

Christian’s face filled the screen.

He stood behind a bank of microphones, his shoulders squared, with his expression composed. He had answered questions about his family, his engagement, and the woman whose name had been dragged through the mud for the better part of a day.

Kylie Benneth.

Isabel had heard the name so often over the last week that it had begun to feel like an insult.

A reporter asked Christian whether he regretted his decision.

Isabel stopped in the entrance hall.

The television continued playing.

Isabel felt something tighten beneath her ribs.

She had spent months telling herself that Christian’s distance was temporary. That he was a difficult man, a private man, a man who would eventually grow comfortable with the arrangement their families had made.

She had told herself that affection could be learned. That respect could become tenderness.

That, given enough time, he might look at her across a dinner table and see something other than an obligation.

She had never expected him to look at another woman as though he had finally discovered the one thing in his life he would willingly fight to keep.

The reporter spoke again.

Isabel’s fingers tightened around the strap of her handbag. She stood beneath the chandelier and watched the screen until the broadcast ended.

Then she looked toward the staircase.

Mrs. Sinclair’s private sitting room was on the first floor, beyond a corridor lined with portraits of dead men who had built fortunes their descendants now fought to preserve.

Isabel knew the way.

She had been here often enough.

She had sat beside Mrs. Sinclair at luncheons, accompanied her to charity functions, and listened while the older woman discussed the future as though Isabel were already part of the family.

There had been gifts, invitations, and conversations about wedding flowers.

There had even been moments when Mrs. Sinclair had looked at her with something approaching approval.

Isabel had mistaken those moments for affection.

She understood that now.

Approval was not affection. And being useful was not the same as being loved.

She walked toward the sitting room.

The door was open.

Mrs. Sinclair sat behind her desk, dressed in a cream blouse and black trousers. Her hair was immaculate, her jewellery understated, and a folder lay open before her.

She did not look up when Isabel entered.

"You’re late."

Isabel glanced at the clock.

"You’re seven minutes late."

Mrs. Sinclair finished reading the page before her, signed the bottom, and placed the document aside. Only then did she raise her eyes.

"Sit down."

Isabel obeyed.

For a moment, neither woman spoke.

Mrs. Sinclair studied her with the detached attention of someone inspecting an item that had arrived in poor condition.

"Have you watched the interview?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Isabel swallowed. "I imagine you’re as unhappy about it as I am."

"That wasn’t my question."

Isabel folded her hands in her lap. "Christian has made his decision."

"Yes. He has."

Mrs. Sinclair leaned back in her chair.

"An extraordinarily foolish one, in my opinion. But he has always been convinced that defiance is the same thing as independence."

Isabel wanted to ask whether the woman had any idea how much she had lost.

She wanted to ask whether Mrs. Sinclair had considered the humiliation of having an engagement dissolved in front of the entire world. Whether she understood what it meant to have strangers discuss your failed future as entertainment.

Instead, she said, "I’m sorry."

Mrs. Sinclair’s expression did not change. "For what?"

Isabel blinked. "I don’t know. I suppose I thought—"

"That isn’t an answer."

"I’m sorry the engagement ended this way."

"The engagement ended because my son refused to marry you."

The words landed without emphasis.

Mrs. Sinclair did not appear to enjoy saying them. She did not appear to regret them, either.

Isabel stared at her. "Yes."

"Then why are you apologising to me as though you personally failed to keep him?"

Isabel’s throat tightened. She had spent years learning to be acceptable. Kylie had simply been herself.

Isabel hated her for it. Then she hated herself for hating her. Kylie had not made Christian renounce his name.

Christian had done that himself.

Mrs. Sinclair interrupted her thoughts.

"Let us be clear about something, Isabel. My son’s decision has embarrassed this family. The announcement, the press conference, the public rejection of his inheritance—every newspaper and financial publication in the country will have something to say about it."

Isabel looked down at her hands. "I know."

"No, I don’t believe you do."

Mrs. Sinclair closed the folder.

"Your father and I entered into an agreement. The arrangement was intended to benefit both families. It was not an invitation for your father to treat the Sinclair name as a financial guarantee while allowing his obligations to accumulate."

Isabel’s head lifted.

"My father has been handling the repayments."

"Has he?"

The question was quiet.

Isabel’s stomach sank. "What does that mean?"

"It means that I have received no satisfactory account of the outstanding balance, despite repeated requests. Your father’s representatives have offered explanations, revised schedules, and promises. They have offered very little money."

"My father told me the situation was being handled."

"Your father tells many people many things."

Isabel felt heat rise into her face. "He wouldn’t deliberately put me in this position."

Mrs. Sinclair regarded her for a long moment.

"You are twenty-six years old, Isabel. You should have learned by now that a man’s affection for his daughter does not automatically make him competent, honest, or financially responsible."

The words stung because Isabel had no answer to them.

She wanted to defend her father.

She wanted to insist that the debt was temporary, that his business had suffered an unexpected setback, that everything would be resolved once the family recovered.

She had been repeating versions of those explanations for months.

"How much does he owe you?" she asked.

Mrs. Sinclair named the amount.

Isabel went still.

For several seconds, the number meant nothing. It was too large to fit into her understanding of the situation.

She looked at Mrs. Sinclair. "But the original agreement—"

"Has been amended several times. Your father requested extensions. He requested additional funds. He assured me that his business would recover."

Mrs. Sinclair’s mouth tightened slightly. "I believed him."

Isabel heard the accusation beneath the words. "You believed him because you trusted him."

"I believed him because I had a reason to believe him. I don’t make financial decisions based on sentiment."