Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary
The third-floor nursery was larger than Isabella’s entire apartment in Boston.
It had white wainscoting, plush cream carpets, an antique crib made of dark cherry wood, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rear gardens of the estate. It was clear that someone had prepared this room long ago—perhaps when Adrian had first believed he was building a life with Valentina.
Isabella sat on the edge of the rocking chair, feeding Sophia a bottle of warm formula.
Dr. Mercer, a soft-spoken elderly physician who clearly possessed long-standing ties to the Costa family, had examined Sophia thirty minutes earlier. He had confirmed the mild ear infection, administered a soothing dose of medicine, and assured Isabella that the child was otherwise remarkably healthy.
“She’s been well cared for,” Dr. Mercer had noted softly, looking at Isabella. “You’ve done an incredible job under impossible circumstances, my dear.”
Now, the room was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of Sophia drinking her bottle.
The door opened silently.
Adrian stepped inside. He had changed out of his wet shirt into a charcoal-grey sweater, though he still carried the heavy weight of authority around him like armor.
He stopped near the crib, looking down at Isabella and the baby.
“She’s asleep,” Isabella whispered, easing the bottle away as Sophia’s eyelids finally fluttered shut.
Isabella stood up slowly, her back aching from the long drive, and placed the baby gently inside the crib. She pulled the soft cashmere blanket over Sophia’s shoulders, lingering for a moment to rest her hand against the child’s back until her breathing became slow and steady.
When she turned around, Adrian was watching her closely.
“You love her,” Adrian said. It wasn't a question.
“Of course I love her,” Isabella replied in a quiet, fiercely protective tone. “I’ve spent every day of the last six months with her. I held her when she had her first shots. I was there when she laughed for the first time. Love isn't about blood, Mr. Costa. It’s about who shows up.”
Adrian felt a strange, uncomfortable pang in his chest.
Growing up in the Costa empire, blood had been everything—a contract, a obligation, a weapon. Love had been secondary, usually traded for power or survival. His father had died in a shootout when Adrian was sixteen, leaving him to inherit a war he hadn't asked for.
“My uncle wants her sent to a convent in Switzerland,” Adrian revealed quietly. “He believes keeping her here makes us vulnerable to Moretti’s men.”
Isabella felt her blood run cold. “You can't do that!”
“I didn't say I agreed with him,” Adrian said, taking a step toward her. “I said that is what my advisers recommend.”
“Your advisers are idiots,” Isabella snapped, forgetting for a moment who she was speaking to. “She is a baby! She needs stability, her mother, and her father. Throwing her across the ocean to hide behind stone walls won't protect her. It will just make her an orphan with money.”
Adrian stared at her, mesmerized by the sheer passion in her dark hazel eyes.
Most women in his social circle were sleek, polished, and meticulously careful about what they said in his presence. They dressed in designer clothing, spoke in measured tones, and treated him with a mixture of reverence and fear.
Isabella Grant was different. She was plush, curvy, dressed in muddy clothes, and carried a sharp, unyielding honesty that he found strangely intoxicating.
“You have courage, Miss Grant,” Adrian murmured, stepping closer until he was standing directly in front of her. “Or you are exceptionally foolish.”
“I’m tired,” Isabella corrected, refusing to back away despite the intoxicating scent of cedar and rain that clung to him. “I haven't slept in forty-eight hours. I’ve been shot at, chased, and threatened. If you’re going to kill me or throw me out, do it now. Otherwise, let me sit in this chair and sleep.”
Adrian looked down at her face. Shadows of exhaustion darkened the skin beneath her eyes. Her lips were soft, unpainted, and trembling slightly despite her brave words.
Slowly, Adrian reached out. His fingers brushed against her cheek, wiping away a dry smear of mud.
Isabella gasped softly, her eyes widening at the unexpected gentleness of his touch. His hand was large, rough with calluses, yet he held her jaw as if she were made of delicate porcelain.
“Nobody is going to kill you while you are in this house,” Adrian whispered, his voice dropping into a rough baritone. “And nobody is taking that child.”
Their eyes locked. The tension in the nursery shifted from danger to something far more intimate, a quiet heat pulsing in the air between them.
A sudden knock at the door broke the spell.
May you like
Victor Costa opened the door three inches, his silver hair gleaming under the hallway light.
“Adrian,” Victor said sharply. “We have a problem. The Moretti family just released a statement to the press. They are accusing you of kidnapping Dominic’s daughter... and his newborn granddaughter.”
