The morning before I went to the court, I saw an unopened email notification on my laptop. My chest tightened as I clicked on it, a sense of dread and hope twisting together.
The sender was Damien Blackwell.
His reply was brief but carried the weight of a storm.
[Damien: I am, but who told you that? Besides, would you believe me, Isla?]
I clasped my hand over my mouth, a wave of disbelief washing over me. So, he was truly alive.
But doubt quickly crept in. What if that was a scam? Someone trying to exploit me, the girl who lost her family and clung desperately to scraps of hope?
I hesitated before replying, my fingers trembling over the keyboard.
[Isla: Prove it to me then.]
The next hour was a blur of exchanged emails. Damien answered my cautious questions with precision and familiarity that chipped away at my skepticism.
Finally, he sent me his number, saying it would be easier to explain over the phone.
Though I had not fully let go of my doubt, something inside me—my intuition, my heart—already believed he was Damian, my brother.
When I finally mustered the courage to call him, the sound of his voice on the other end nearly shattered me.
“Isla?” His voice was deep, steady, and achingly familiar despite the years that had passed.
“Damian?” I whispered, my voice trembling. The name felt foreign yet so right on my tongue, stirring memories I had buried long ago. “Is… is it really you?”
“It’s me, Isla,” he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that wrapped around me. “I know it sounds strange, but I’ll do anything to prove to you that I’m the Damian you knew seventeen years ago.”
I could not find the words. My breath hitched as emotions tangled in my chest, hope, disbelief, and a longing I had not allowed myself to feel in years.
“Are… are you okay?” I finally asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m in a good state,” he replied, his tone confident. “Better than I’ve been in years. If you want to see me, I think I can make it happen now.”
His words struck something deep within me. The years apart had been cruel, but here he was, offering to bridge the gap, to be my anchor again.
“Really? Can we meet again?” My voice cracked, and I felt tears threatening to spill.
“Yeah,” he said after a pause, his voice steady. “Are you facing a problem right now?”
His question caught me off guard. How could he still read me so easily after all the time? The floodgates broke, and I spoke through my tears.
“I’m… please take me away from the Klein family,” I pleaded, my voice raw.
“Sure.” His reply was immediate, unwavering, like a promise etched in stone. “I’ll send someone to get you. Come to Italy.”
“Italy?” I asked, my voice laced with curiosity.
“You’ll understand everything when we meet,” he said simply. “Send me the location, and we’ll make it happen.”
As a result, after finalizing everything at court, I returned to the manor for the last time. I packed only the essentials, leaving behind the life I had built with Percy and the betrayal that came with it.
Before my fifteen past love letters that I burned completely burned, I had slipped out unnoticed from the home that had never truly been mine.
The taxi took me to the agreed meeting point, and as I stepped out, my eyes fell on a sleek black car that matched the description Damian had sent.
A man got out of the car, his tall frame imposing yet calm. His dark eyes met mine as he approached.
“Isla?” he asked, his voice deep with a slight roughness.
“Yes,” I answered cautiously.
“I’m Julian Cross,” he introduced himself, his tone professional but kind. “Damian sent me to pick you up.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, my voice barely audible.
Without hesitation, Julian took my luggage, stowed it in the car, and opened the passenger door for me. I slid into the seat, my heart pounding as the realization sank in—I was leaving.
As the car pulled away, the cityscape of Spain blurred past the window. For the first time in years, I felt a strange sense of relief.
**
In the evening, Percy returned home, expecting the usual routine—me sitting on the living room sofa, waiting to greet him with a polite smile.
But as he entered the grand, quiet manor, something felt off.
“Isla, I’m back!” Percy called, his voice echoing in the silence.
No response.
He frowned, glancing around. The stillness unnerved him. Normally, I would appear at the sound of his voice, yet that time, nothing.
“Isla?” he called again, louder this time, his tone edged with unease.
Percy began checking the usual places, from the kitchen, the garden house, the backyard. But I was not there.
As he stepped outside, his eyes caught the faint remnants of ash on the ground. Among the ashes were partially burned pieces of paper.
Curious and growing anxious, Percy bent down and picked up one of the unburned fragments. His breath hitched as he recognized the handwriting. My handwriting.
It was one of the love letters I had given him over the years—the ones he had never opened, the ones he thought were still safe in his drawer.
“What the hell,” he whispered, his grip tightening on the charred paper.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He straightened up abruptly, his heart pounding, and began shouting my name.
“Isla? Isla, where are you?!”
He stormed back into the house, his voice growing frantic.
The servant, just returning from shopping, barely had time to set down her bags before Percy grabbed her by the shoulders. His eyes were bloodshot, wild with panic.
“Where is my wife? Where did she go?!” he demanded, shaking her slightly.
“I…I don’t know, Mr. Klein,” the servant stammered, terrified. “Mrs. Klein was here this morning. She seemed fine.”
Percy released her with a growl of frustration, his breathing uneven. He ran up the staircase, stumbling in his haste, his panic rising with each passing second.
He burst into the bedroom, his eyes darting around, searching for any sign of me.
“Isla?”
But the room was empty. The closet doors hung open, revealing the gaping space where some of my clothes had been. One of my suitcases was missing.
His knees felt weak as he stepped closer, running his hands through his hair.
“She left…” he muttered, his voice barely audible.
The sight of the empty closet confirmed his worst fears, but a question gnawed at him. Why had I burned the love letters? What did it mean?
With dread pooling in his stomach, Percy stumbled into his study. His breath hitched in relief when he saw a letter on his desk, neatly placed, just like every year.
His fingers trembled as he picked it up, the familiar handwriting on the envelope sparking a fleeting, desperate hope.
