After lunch, Adrian rose from his seat and extended his hand toward Isabella."Come," he said softly. "You need rest."
Without a word, Isabella followed him through the quiet corridors of the mansion. Her steps were slow, her mind still reeling from the chaos that had consumed her life. For days, she had felt like a shadow of herself — numb, defeated, stripped of hope. But now, after learning that her father was safe under Adrian's care, a faint spark of strength began to return to her heart.
Adrian led her to the master bedroom. The large black doors opened with a soft click, revealing a serene space filled with muted tones — elegant yet warm. He guided her inside, his fingers gently wrapping around her hand.
"This is now our room," Adrian said, turning to face her. His deep voice was calm, reassuring. "I've already arranged everything you might need here. Let me know if there's something else you require."
Isabella nodded faintly, her gaze wandering over the room. Everything looked perfect — too perfect, almost unreal for someone whose world had fallen apart overnight.
Adrian's eyes softened as he looked at her. "You should change and rest for a while. I'll be in the study to finish some work. Once I'm done, we'll visit your father at the hospital."
He hesitated for a moment, his hand rising almost instinctively. He wanted to comfort her, to let her know she was safe — truly safe. But when he leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on her forehead, Isabella flinched back slightly.
Adrian froze. The flicker of pain in his eyes was fleeting, replaced quickly by quiet understanding. Without another word, he lowered his hand and turned away.Outside the room, he exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "You're moving too fast, Adrian."
He knew it was too soon. Isabella had been through hell — betrayal, humiliation, fear. Winning her heart wouldn't come from force or protection alone. It would take patience… and time.
Inside the room, Isabella stood still for a moment after he left. She could still sense the sincerity in his tone, the gentleness in his actions. Changing into a soft pair of pajamas, she finally laid down on the bed. The mattress felt warm and comforting, and for the first time in what felt like forever, her body began to relax.
She took a deep breath, pulling out her phone. Her heart tensed as she opened her social media page — she was ready to face the cruel comments, the fabricated headlines, the endless humiliation that had shattered her peace.
But what she saw made her freeze.
Instead of hatred, the screen was filled with messages of congratulations."Congratulations on your marriage, Mrs. Frost!""Can't believe the news channel faked everything! Stay strong!""Justice for Isabella and her father!"
Post after post, people were condemning the news agency that had spread the false scandal. They demanded apologies, proof, accountability. The tide had turned — somehow, the world was seeing the truth.
Isabella stared at the messages scrolling on her screen, but the congratulatory words and the wave of public support made no sound inside her. She should have felt relief — the smear had been cleared, her name defended — yet a hollow emptiness sat where relief should have been. Something was missing. Something important.
Anger rose slowly, then quickly, a heat that pushed past the shock and the tears. It was not the teary, helpless anger of a victim; it was a cold, calculated flame. Her hands curled into fists.
"Enough," she whispered to the empty room. "They've seen my fragile side for too long. From today, they will see the other me. I will not spare them. I'm only waiting to see my father — then they will all pay."
She sprang up from the bed, the plan already forming in her head. There was no time to wait for someone to save her again. If she wanted justice — real, sharp justice — she would have to take it herself.
Isabella hurried to the small side table where a laptop sat. She opened it with shaking fingers and typed the password she always used at home. The screen flashed denied. She tried another — wrong again. Only then did she realize this wasn't her laptop; it was one of the house's spare machines, locked and unfamiliar.
She bit her lip. She could ask Adrian, but it didn't feel like the right time. He will ask many questions at this time because he had asked her to rest for sometime. She didn't want him to know about her plans or to involve him in her fight. She can handled this with her own.
She took a breath and tapped a number on her phone. "I need the Grace Group files — ownership details, share distribution, recent transfers, and any documents relating to Roman Grace," she said when the person answered. "Send them to me now."
Her phone began to sing almost immediately — message after message, PDFs, spreadsheets, scanned agreements. Reports poured in. She opened the first file and began to read, eyes tracking numbers and name. She reached for a pen, then remembered there wasn't one on the bedside table. No pad either. Her mind wanted to note key points, outline a strategy, list names and dates — but without paper, she had only the phone. For now, she would read and remember. Commit the essentials to memory until she could get proper tools.
She forced herself to slow down, absorb the data, and identify the weak links she could exploit. After the hospital visit, she would buy a notebook, a pen, and a proper laptop. For now, her phone would have to be enough.
As she read, fury settled into a sharp focus. This was no longer about clearing her name. It was about taking back everything that rightfully belonged to her family — and ensuring the people who had broken them paid in full.