Adrian's pov

I couldn’t get the image out of my head.

The way my father looked at Isabella during their meeting yesterday wasn’t normal. It wasn’t just suspicion. It was something deeper. Something that looked like recognition.

And that scared me.

I didn’t know why, but I had this heavy feeling in my chest. My father was a man who trusted no one, but when he recognized someone… it usually meant they were part of his past. And his past was full of danger.

I needed to know more about her.

So I called her.

“Lunch?” I asked over the phone.

She paused for a moment before answering. “Where?”

“Rooftop restaurant. One o’clock. Don’t say no.”

She laughed softly. “You don’t take no for an answer, do you?”

“Not when I want something,” I said, and I meant it.

The rooftop was quiet when we got there. The wind carried the smell of the ocean even though we were miles away.

She sat across from me, wearing a simple white dress that made her look innocent, but her eyes… her eyes told a different story.

“You look like you’re studying me,” she said, lifting her wine glass.

“I am,” I replied honestly. “You don’t make it easy to figure you out.”

“Maybe I’m not meant to be figured out,” she teased, but I caught something in her tone.

When I mentioned my father during our conversation, I saw it. Her smile didn’t fade, but her eyes… They went cold. For just a second, but I noticed.

“What do you think of my father?” I asked casually.

She stirred her drink. “Powerful man. Dangerous man. Men like him… they change lives.”

“And yours?”

She gave me a small smile but didn’t answer.

Later that day, I went to my father’s office without telling him. His assistant tried to stop me, but I walked in anyway.

He was at his desk, holding a file.

“Adrian, you should knock,” he said without looking up.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Work.”

But then I saw it. My name is on the file. And right below it—Isabella’s picture.

I stepped forward. “Why is she in my file?”

He closed it instantly and set it aside. “Not your concern.”

“She’s in my life, so it’s my concern,” I argued.

“Adrian,” his voice was calm but cold, “stay away from her.”

That only made me more curious.

That night, as I was driving home, I noticed a black car behind me.

At first, I thought it was a coincidence. But when I changed lanes, they changed too.

I took a longer route, and they stayed close. Three blocks later, the car suddenly turned off into a side street and disappeared.

I had enemies because of my father’s business. But something told me this wasn’t about him. This was about her.

The next morning, I decided to pay Isabella a surprise visit.

Her art gallery was beautiful, but when I walked in, she wasn’t there.

“Isabella?” I asked the young assistant behind the counter.

“She stepped out,” the girl said.

I looked up at the security cameras in the corner. The red light that usually blinked was off.

“Your cameras aren’t working?” I asked.

“They’ve been down since this morning,” she replied.

That made me uneasy.

I waited for over an hour. Still no Isabella.

When she finally walked in, it was almost evening.

Her dress sleeve was torn, and there was a faint bruise on her wrist.

“Where have you been?” I asked immediately, stepping closer.

“Out,” she said simply.

“Out where?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she moved past me like I wasn’t even there.

I caught her arm gently, but she flinched.

“What happened to you?” I demanded.

Her eyes met mine, and there was something in them—fear, anger, and… hurt.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she whispered.

“Try me.”

She pulled her arm away. “Adrian, you need to stop looking for answers. You might not like what you find.”

“Is this about my father?” I asked.

She gave a small, bitter laugh. “You think everything is about him. Sometimes, it’s about you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She turned away, grabbing some papers from her desk. “You’ll figure it out.”

I followed her to the back of the gallery.

“Isabella, talk to me. Did someone hurt you?”

“Why do you care?” she asked sharply.

“Because…” I hesitated. “Because I don’t want you to get hurt.”

She froze for a moment, then turned to look at me. “And if you’re the reason I get hurt?”

Her words hit me like a punch.

“What does that mean?” I asked again.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached up and touched my face gently.

“You’re too much like him,” she whispered.

“Him? My father?”

Her hand dropped. “Forget it.”

We stood in silence for a moment, and I couldn’t help but notice how close we were.

“I don’t want to forget it,” I said softly. “And I don’t want to stay away from you, no matter what my father says.”

“Your father told you to stay away from me?” she asked with a small, amused smile.

“Yes.”

“And you’re not going to listen?”

“No.”

Her eyes softened for a second, and then she stepped even closer. “You’re going to regret that.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But right now, I just want to know the truth.”

She stared at me for a long time, and for a moment, I thought she might kiss me. But then she turned away.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Her words kept replaying in my head.

You’re too much like him.

What if you’re the reason I get hurt?

I kept thinking about the file in my father’s office, the black car, the cameras being off, the bruise on her wrist.

It wasn’t just a coincidence. Something was happening, and I was right in the middle of it.

And I wasn’t sure if Isabella was a victim… or part of the plan.

The next day, I went back to my father’s office.

“Tell me about Isabella,” I demanded.

He looked up from his desk. “Drop it, Adrian.”

“I can’t.”

“Then you’re going to get yourself killed,” he said simply.

“Why? Who is she to you?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Someone you should never have met.”

“Too late,” I said.

His eyes darkened. “Then be ready for what comes next.”

That evening, I drove to Isabella’s apartment. I had to see her.

But when I got there, her door was slightly open.

I pushed it gently.

The lights were off. The place was quiet.

“Isabella?” I called.

No answer.

I stepped inside and saw her phone on the floor.

And then I saw it—an envelope on the table with my name written on it.

I opened it. Inside was a single line written in her handwriting:

“Don’t look for me, Adrian. If you do… you’ll end up like him.”

My heart pounded.

Like him?

Who was she talking about?

And where was she now?