Chapter 318
The hills rolled in patient waves beneath the dying sun, layered in shades of moss and gold, as if someone had dragged a wet brush across the horizon and forgotten to lift it. Ancient oaks stood like old sentinels, their branches crooked with age and memory, leaves whispering secrets to the wind. Wildflowers—bluebells, daisies, foxglove—bowed and rose in the breeze, and somewhere beyond the hedgerows, sheep bleated lazily, unconcerned with the troubles of life.
Isabella Voss slowed her car without realizing it.
The narrow country road curved gently, bordered by stone fences softened by ivy. Isabella rolled down the window, letting the air rush in. It smelled of earth and grass and something faintly sweet—roses, she realized, the same roses her mother used to dry and tuck into drawers. The scent caught her off guard. Her throat tightened.
Just hours ago, she’d been surrounded by grand tents, flashing screens, polite applause, and hollow congratulations on deals sealed. The tech conference had been a blur of handshakes and rehearsed smiles, of CEOs and investors praising her brilliance while carefully not mentioning the scandal of her wedding day. After she left Henry and the tech conference, she’d boarded her private jet with one intention—to go back to her penthouse, lock the doors, and let herself fall apart in silence.
But halfway through the flight, staring at the city lights shrinking beneath her, she’d felt something inside her recoil.
Not there.
She had turned to her secretary, voice steady despite the chaos in her head. “Prepare a car. I’m driving myself. I’m going to Somerset p>
Her secretary had blinked. “Your hometown, Ms. Voss p>
“Yes,” Isabella had said, almost fiercely. “Home p>
Now, the gravel driveway crunched beneath the tires, the sound loud in the quiet evening. The Georgian home came into view—brick warm with age, windows glowing softly, ivy crawling up one side as if trying to reclaim it. The gardens were in full bloom, roses spilling over their trellises, lavender lining the paths, herbs growing wild the way her mother preferred.
Isabella parked and sat there for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel. The car—sleek, black, expensive—felt out of place here. A relic of the woman she had built herself into. Her reflection stared back from the windshield: flawless makeup slightly dulled, green eyes shadowed with exhaustion, red hair escaping its careful pins.
She exhaled and stepped out.
Gravel shifted under her heels. She retrieved her suitcase, suddenly aware of how heavy it felt, and followed the familiar flagstone path. Each step stirred memories—bare feet running in summer, her father’s laughter, her mother calling her in before dusk.
She raised her hand to knock.
The door opened before her knuckles touched the wood.
“Isabella p>
Her mother’s voice broke through her like sunlight through cloud.
Winnie Voss stood there, smaller than Isabella remembered but no less radiant, silver threaded through her auburn hair, eyes bright with shock and joy. For a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other.
Then Winnie surged forward. “My darling girl p>
Isabella barely had time to set the suitcase down before she was wrapped in warmth and the familiar scent of soap and roses. Winnie’s arms were strong despite her age, holding Isabella as if she might disappear again.
“What are you doing here?” Winnie asked breathlessly, pulling back just enough to cup Isabella’s face. “You didn’t call—oh, love, you look exhausted p>
Before Isabella could answer, a deeper voice rumbled from behind.
“Well, I’ll be damned p>
Edward Voss emerged from the sitting room, wiping his hands on a cloth. He took one look at his daughter and crossed the space in three strides, enveloping her in a bear hug that smelled of pipe tobacco and fresh hay.
“Lass,” he said softly near her ear, voice thick. “You’ve been gone too long p>
Isabella laughed weakly, the sound breaking halfway into a sob. “You say that every time p>
“And I’ll keep saying it,” Edward replied. “Because it keeps being true p>
Isabella melted into their embrace, the dam of her composure cracking. “Mum… Dad… I didn’t know where else to go. I just… I needed home p>
They did not let her linger in the doorway.
Edward’s hand settled firmly at the small of her back, guiding her forward, while Winnie reached for her coat, already fussing as if Isabella had merely been gone for an afternoon and not months. The door closed behind them with a soft, final thud, and the house wrapped itself around Isabella like a remembered embrace.
Warmth met her first.
A fire crackled low in the hearth of the foyer, its orange glow dancing across polished wooden floors worn smooth by generations of footsteps. The boards creaked gently beneath her shoes, the sound familiar enough to make her chest ache. Portraits lined the walls—stern ancestors in dark oil paint, her grandparents smiling stiffly in sepia tones, and, halfway down the hall, a framed photograph of Isabella at twelve, missing a tooth and laughing as if the world had never learned how to hurt her.
The air was thick with comfort. Fresh bread baked somewhere nearby, yeast and warmth mingling with the faint, floral sweetness of rose potpourri—her mother’s doing. Isabella inhaled deeply before she could stop herself.
“You smell it?” Winnie said softly, noticing. “I put a loaf in before supper. Thought it might make the house feel… welcoming p>
Isabella swallowed. “It does p>
They moved toward the sitting room, Lydia’s hand still clasping hers as if afraid she might vanish again. The room glowed with lamplight and firelight, shadows pooling softly in the corners. Overstuffed armchairs sat close together, draped with crocheted throws. Embroidered cushions—ones Isabella remembered helping stitch as a child—were stacked neatly against the arms. The bay window overlooked the gardens, now painted in purples and blues as twilight settled, dew catching the last light on rose petals.
“Sit, love,” Winnie said gently, pressing her toward Isabella’s favorite chair. “You look like you’ve been through the wringer p>
Isabella sank down, the cushions sighing beneath her. Her suitcase thudded softly at her feet, forgotten the moment her body surrendered to rest.
Edward lowered himself into the chair opposite her, elbows on his knees. Firelight flickered across his weathered face, deepening the lines carved by years of sun and worry. His eyes, however, were steady and kind.
“All right,” he said quietly. “Out with it, Bella. You don’t come home unannounced unless something’s wrong p>
Winnie hovered for a moment, then hurried off. “I’ll fetch tea p>
Edward’s gaze never left Isabella. “Is it that conference? Or He paused. “Is it something else entirely p>
The dam broke.
Isabella’s breath hitched, once, twice—then the tears came, hot and relentless. She folded forward, burying her face in her hands as her shoulders shook. The chair seemed to rock with her grief.
“Oh, Dad,” she sobbed. “Mum… I’ve been such a fool p>
Edward rose immediately, crossing the space to crouch in front of her. He didn’t speak, just rested a broad hand on her knee, grounding and solid.
Winnie returned quickly, tray in hand—steaming teapot, mismatched cups, a small plate of biscuits. She set it aside without ceremony and knelt beside Isabella, arms wrapping around her.
“There, sweetheart,” Winnie murmured into her hair. “Cry it out. Whatever it is, we’ve got you p>
The fire popped loudly, filling the silence between Isabella’s gasps. Slowly, the storm inside her eased. She wiped her face with trembling fingers and drew a shaky breath.
“It’s Her voice cracked. She tried again. “It’s a man p>
Edward stiffened slightly, then relaxed. “All right p>
“Henry,” Isabella whispered. “Henry Jackson p>
Edward’s brows lifted, curiosity softening his concern. “You’ve never mentioned him. Who is he, Bella p>
Isabella wrapped both hands around her teacup when Winnie pressed it into her palms. The warmth seeped into her skin, steadying her pulse.
“It was that night,” she said, staring into the tea as if the answer lived there. “The night before my wedding to Logan p>
Winnie’s face tightened. “We remember p>
“The night I found Logan,” Isabella continued, voice low. “In our bedroom. With her. His baby mama. They were talking—laughing—about how they’d wait until after the ceremony, then kill me. Take everything I’d built p>
Winnie nodded softly, hand flying to her mouth as if trying to suppress the memory.
“That night, I ran,” Isabella said. “I didn’t think. I just ran to a bar downtown. I was crying like an idiot, couldn’t breathe. And Henry was there. Sitting alone. He saw me, came over. He had also just had a rough night p>
Edward’s jaw tightened. “And p>
“And he listened,” Isabella said, a fragile smile tugging at her lips. “Really listened. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t doubt me. We both got drunk, really drunk and we spent the night together. The next day Logan came looking for me and he helped me fight off Logan. It turned out that Henry’s from a wealthy family, studying medicine. Calm, sharp, those warm eyes that make you feel She searched for the word. “Safe p>
Winnie reached for her hand again. “He helped you p>
“He did more than that. He stood with me when I confronted Logan. Helped involve the police quietly. By noon, Logan was gone p>
The fire crackled as if punctuating the moment.
“And Henry stayed,” Isabella whispered. “He said he was grateful. But somewhere along the way… I fell in love with him. We have known each other for two months. Just like that.” She let out a weak laugh. “How stupid is that p>
Edward leaned back, studying her carefully. “Stupid?” he echoed. Then he shook his head. “No, lass. Love doesn’t punch a time card p>
He smiled faintly. “Sometimes it hits like lightning. One blink, and your whole world’s different p>
Winnie smiled through tears. “Your father’s right. We danced once at a village fair, remember? Under the stars. Forty years later She gestured around them. “Here we are p>
To be continued p>