Isabella Roosevelt
The lights flickered overhead as I scurried behind Mr. Harrington, my heels clicking rhythmically against the polished marble floor, a sound that echoed through the vast, empty hallways. His long strides were a challenge for my 5’6" frame, but I was determined to keep up, no matter how out of breath I felt. After all, I’d been doing this dance for five long years—chasing after him, trying to anticipate his needs, and fading into the background like a shadow that knew its place. Always on edge, always riddled with anxiety, because five years ago, my father sent me here as a spy, a pawn in his grand game. Alfred Harrington, a man who molded his empire with an iron will and now set his sights on politics, driven by ambition. The Harringtons were generational enemies of the Harringtons, locked in a rivalry that spanned decades, and I was the youngest daughter in a family where obedience was non-negotiable, a rule carved in stone. My father was strict and rarely there when I was growing up, so I could never say no to him, not then, not now, not ever. “And Mr. Harrington,” I panted, struggling to match his relentless pace, “your lunch is on your desk. Mr. Smith will be here in 45 minutes. I’ve prepared the minutes from your last meeting with him, so you can refresh your memory.” He glanced at me, his expression as inscrutable as ever, a mask that never slipped. He wouldn’t remember my first name; he never did. But that worked in my favour, allowing me to remain anonymous in a world where anonymity was a rare gift. The less memorable I stayed, the safer I was, the more I could blend into the background. I harboured a deep dislike for him, a resentment that simmered quietly beneath the surface, yet an inexplicable admiration lingered alongside it, a contradiction I could never fully understand. Perhaps it was his undeniable achievements that commanded respect, achievements that no one could dispute. He wasn’t a player or a narcissist; his dedication was solely to his work and his family, and no one else, a fact that both intrigued and repelled me. I couldn’t decide if this admiration was a virtue or a vice. In matters of work, I found myself looking up to him, yearning to emulate his success, as if earning his approval might validate my existence here, in this world where I felt out of place. “Why am I not getting any updates on the development of the ‘Continental’ app?” he asked sharply, his tone as cutting as a blade. “You fired the whole team,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. The regret was instant, the words hanging in the air like a damning confession. But ‘honesty’ was the only currency I had in this high-stakes game. The only reason I’ve managed to avoid getting fired is through my ‘loyalty’ and ‘honesty,’ despite my frequent work-related mishaps. Everyone else is too afraid to speak up or provide genuine answers when he’s angry. Whether it’s due to my own recklessness, overconfidence, or simply my inability to bite my tongue, I find myself being the only one who offers him real responses instead of just nodding along with “Yes, sir” and “Sorry.” He stopped abruptly, causing me to collide with his broad back. “What?” I took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. You fired the entire team last week. They weren’t meeting your expectations.” I know what you’re thinking—does he have a bad memory? No, he simply doesn’t care enough to remember. His jaw clenched, the tension in his shoulders palpable. “And what about you, Ms. Brown? Are you meeting my expectations?” Right, I work here as Isabelle Brown to conceal my identity. I hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze on me, each second stretching painfully long. “I don’t think anyone can meet your expectations, sir.” He sighed, running a hand through his soft brown hair. “Call William,” he said, resuming his brisk walk. “Tell him to assemble a new team with a fresh proposal by the end of this week.” “But Mr. Harrington,” I protested, “today is Friday!” He glanced back at me, his grey eyes piercing. “And what is your point, Ms. Brown?” My heart raced. He was handsome, I’d give him that. But beyond the chiselled jawline and piercing eyes, there lay a void where any redeeming qualities should reside. He was a problem wrapped in a tailored suit, a man who could make or break careers with a single nod. Lucas Harrington's presence is both captivating and intimidating. With his strikingly handsome face, piercing gaze. What drew me in the most was his scent - a heady blend of sophistication and raw power that seemed to linger in the air long after he had passed by. His muscular, broad frame only added to his commanding presence as he towered over everyone, leaving no doubt about his influence and authority. “My point is that it’s impossible. The weekend is upon us, and William is already stressed.” “I’ll be in for lunch,” he’d said, dismissing me like an afterthought. “Don’t disturb me till the time Smith arrives.” He stepped into his hollow office, the door closing behind him. I held my shaky hands as I shook my head unable to speak. Again, he was a very handsome man. But he was an asshole. I nodded, my voice trapped in my throat. As I turned to leave, William—the perpetually frazzled colleague—ambushed me with his presence. “Oh, good morning, Bella,” he greeted, his eyes darting around as if expecting disaster. “What now?” I hesitated, then spilled the dreaded news. “He wants you to assemble another team with a new proposal for the app by the end of this week.” William’s face contorted into a mask of frustration. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “I’m done. What’s next? A team of unicorns and leprechauns?” “He’s serious,” I insisted. “And please, don’t hate me. Everyone already does. He always makes me deliver the bad news. Please talk to him once and tell him you can’t complete this task in three days.” “No, absolutely not. I am so tired.” He whines making me anxious. “You have to tell him that. He always rolls his eyes at me and looks at me like I just told him I killed his whole family. I hate that man. And I will—" I stop mid-sentence as I notice William’s eyes widening, and he quietly starts taking a step back. “Sorry, Mr. Harrington. I have to go back to work. Gotta put that team together for the proposal. Thank you so much for this opportunity.” he says before rushing off. What the fuck? Uh-Oh.Isabella Roosevelt My heart beats in my chest as I refuse to turn around. I have worked here for five years, and I have never been so unprofessional in front of him, not even for a second. “Ms. Brown,” his deep voice sent shivers down my spine, “I’d like to see you in my office.” I turned around, but he had already vanished. With a resigned sigh, I followed him into his office. He settled into his seat, gesturing for me to take the chair opposite him. “Ms. Brown, do you have a problem with me?” he asked, his gaze probing. I found myself at a loss for words. I couldn't bring myself to lie, yet I was too terrified to speak the truth. I needed this job. My father would be so disappointed if I get fired. Also working for LucasHarrington came with its perks. Not only was the pay generous, but he also provided assistance with student loans and offered regular appraisals. It was no wonder people were willing to endure the chaos of the workplace for the financial security he provided.
Isabella Roosevelt I felt a pang of guilt for never inviting my office friends over. They’d mentioned it a few times, and I’d always dodged the suggestion with some flimsy excuse. But how could I explain why I lived in the richest neighborhood in the country? The truth was, my father’s wealth wasn’t something I liked to flaunt or was around to flaunt because of the whole ‘spy thing’. He was never around, but I respected him because he always took care of us financially. We weren’t spoiled, but our basic necessities were always met. I let the guilt wash over me, trying to push it away as I poured hot water over the tea leaves, the rich aroma filling my small but elegant kitchen. I was looking forward to curling up on the couch, switching on the television, and losing myself in something mindless for the evening. The quiet solitude was my haven. Here, I didn’t have to pretend or keep up appearances. I could just be… Isabelle Brown, the ordinary assistant who worked long hours an
Isabella Roosevelt As he reached for the handle, he looked back at me one last time, his eyes cold and devoid of any warmth. “And, Isabelle…” His voice was low, chilling. “Don’t think about running. I’ll find you.” Panic surged through me, and before I could stop myself, I screamed, “Wait!” Lucas paused, his hand still on the door, his expression inscrutable as he turned back to face me. My legs felt like they were going to give out from under me, but I forced myself to stay upright, to confront the reality of my situation. “Please,” I begged, my voice breaking as the tears spilled over once more. “I’m not scared of prison—I’m scared of my father. If he finds out I got caught… he’ll never forgive me. He’ll disown me. He will kill me.” Lucas’s gaze remained steady, unyielding. I could see the wheels turning in his mind, calculating, assessing the worth of my words. I knew I had to convince him, had to make him understand that my fear wasn’t of the cold, hard walls of a prison, bu
Isabella RooseveltI paced around my apartment nervously, the walls closing in on me as my thoughts spiraled. What was I supposed to do now? My mind raced with the possible outcomes, each more terrifying than the last. I knew my father would kill me—not literally, but his wrath would be enough to make me wish he had. Somehow, despite all of this, my brothers would end up with all the property and inheritance, while I would be left with the weight of the family’s reputation on my shoulders. Life was so unfair.I wanted to call my mother, to hear her soothing voice and maybe get some advice, but I wasn’t brave enough. I was too scared of what she might say—or worse, what she might not say. The thought of her disappointment was enough to freeze the phone in my hand. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I was scared of my family, especially my father. He ruled with an iron fist, and even the thought of his reaction to this disaster made my blood run cold.I glanced at the clock—7:00 AM. Th
Isabella Roosevelt“I understand,” I said quietly, my voice steady despite the turmoil roiling inside me. The words felt like they were coming from someone else, as if I were watching myself from a distance, detached from the reality of the situation. “I’ll sign the prenup.”Lucas’s expression didn’t change, not even a flicker of emotion on his carefully guarded face, though I thought I saw a faint flicker of something in his eyes—perhaps satisfaction, or maybe just a recognition of my compliance with his demands. He had expected me to resist, to fight back, but my submission seemed to surprise him in some small way. “Good,” he said, his voice flat and businesslike. “We’ll finalize the arrangements by the end of the week.”But beneath that polished exterior, beneath that impenetrable mask he wore so well, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to Lucas than he let on. More than the cold, calculating Harrington heir, the one who had earned a reputation for being ruthless in busin
Isabella RooseveltI arrived at the Harrington manor at precisely 6 p.m., the air around me thick with anticipation. The sprawling mansion loomed before me, every bit as intimidating as the man I was about to face. As I stepped inside, I found Lucas waiting for me in the living room. He stood by the fireplace, hands casually in his pockets, his presence commanding the space effortlessly. His eyes met mine, and I instinctively sucked in a harsh breath. No words were exchanged, but the air crackled with unspoken tension.Without breaking eye contact, Lucas stepped toward me, his movements slow and deliberate. He placed a hand on the small of my back, the contact searing against my skin, even through the fabric of my dress. The touch sent a jolt through me, and I stiffened, not from fear but from the sudden awareness of his proximity. The warmth of his palm lingered far longer than it should have as he guided me upstairs toward his room, his grip firm and possessive.I could smell his d
Isabella RooseveltMy eyes drifted to Lucas, searching for some form of reaction, and I caught sight of the satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.He rolled his eyes, as if my father’s collapse was nothing more than an inconvenience—‘theatrics,’ he seemed to think. The callousness in his expression sent a chill down my spine, but at the same time, something deep inside me stirred. Lucas’s complete lack of sympathy, his ease at brushing off such a dramatic moment, unsettled me. But it also cemented the truth I had always suspected—he was as ruthless as he was calculated."Isn’t this convenient?" Lucas whispered low in my ear, his tone dripping with amusement, the warmth of his breath sending an unwelcome shiver down my back. He didn’t seem the least bit concerned, and as the room erupted into chaos around us, his hand remained firmly at my waist, keeping me tethered to him. His grip was tight, possessive, as if I was already his and the rest of the world had simply yet to