Chapter 4

Sophia leapt from her bed, heart pounding. "Seriously?"

"Absolutely," Alexander confirmed.

"Then why didn't Victoria mention it earlier?"

"It was just finalized. She doesn't know yet."

Sophia's excitement bubbled over. "Dad, let's keep this from Victoria. Imagine her face when we surprise her back home!"

"Deal."

"You're amazing, Dad! Love you!"

After hanging up, Sophia twirled around her room, humming to herself.

Then her thoughts drifted to Isabella. For days, she'd avoided her calls—leaving early, keeping her phone off. The silence had been bliss.

But guilt crept in. What if Isabella was furious?

Yet, knowing Isabella, she'd never stay quiet if upset. She'd demand answers immediately.

Sophia's chest tightened with sudden longing. Before she could second-guess, she dialed Isabella's number.

The moment it connected, reality hit. Returning home meant seeing Victoria—but also Isabella's inevitable interference. Her joy dimmed.

Across time zones, Isabella stirred at midnight to her ringing phone. Sophia's name flashed. She reached for it—only for the call to drop.

Despite their strained relationship, worry gripped her. She redialed instantly.

Sophia saw the incoming call and turned away.

Panicked, Isabella contacted the villa's landline. Margaret answered. "Ms. Sinclair? Sophia's fine—asleep when I checked earlier. Let me verify."

Relief washed over Isabella. "Thank you."

Upstairs, Sophia brushed her teeth aggressively as Margaret entered. "Your mother was concerned. Everything alright?"

"Pocket dial," Sophia muttered, avoiding eye contact.

Margaret left, none the wiser.

Sophia exhaled sharply, resentment simmering.

Isabella, now wide awake, dragged herself to work exhausted the next morning.

Meanwhile, Alexander absentmindedly packed the forgotten divorce papers into his briefcase before their flight home.

"All set," he announced, ushering Sophia into the limo.

Isabella remained oblivious to their return.

Two weeks into solo living, Isabella relished her newfound peace. That Saturday, sunlight streamed through her curtains as she watered plants. The doorbell rang.

Abigail Winslow stood there with a basket. "Hope I'm not interrupting?"

"Not at all," Isabella smiled.

"Freshly baked goods—my small thanks for saving Charlotte from that dog last week."

"You're too kind."

After Abigail left, Isabella settled with coffee, scrolling through news of Trellis College's centennial. Alumni photos made her fingers tremble.

She could've been among them.

Impulsively, she drove to campus that evening.

As she wandered familiar halls, a voice called, "Isabella?"

At a nearby café, Nathaniel Graves poured her tea. "How have you been?"

Isabella traced the cup's rim. "Well... I'm getting divorced."

Nathaniel paused. "I'm sorry."

"What's next? Returning to the company?"

"I want to, but—"

"The team needs you," he urged. "You belong there."

Isabella bit her lip. Six years away from AI's rapid evolution—could she still lead?