Isabella

Ever since the photoshoot two weeks ago, after Halleen released them over their official catalogue cover for the month, my name has been everywhere. I have been mentioned in Elle, Cosmopolitan, Vogue – "Is A Certain Billionaire's Daughter Choosing the Self-made Path, and Do We Love Her For It? – and at least a dozen other magazines.

I had to turn off my phone for hours on end because my social media handles keep blowing up. As if to buttress my point, a series of chimes ring out from my phone, and when I reach for it the email header greets me first. Premier Model Management: Personal Invitation to Audition

I smile as I skim lightly over the letter, as it occurs to me how far I've come. I have been sniffed at, turned down at almost every point. And now I am being personally invited to audition to model for high-end agencies.

My vision blurry with astounded tears, I close the email and put the phone away. It's been two weeks; really I should be used to it by now but I doubt that I ever will.

I make a mental note to respond to the agency before the end of the week. It's not my first invite over the past several days, and it won't be my last.

The Mercedes pulls up in front of Alessandro's building, and it begins again: my heart in my mouth, pounding, drying up all the saliva on my tongue.

I don't know why Alessandro has invited me here, and all day I've refused to wonder why.

I cannot bear to torture myself with that curiosity; it is enough torture that he hasn't spoken more than sparse strings of words to me since we returned from Yosemite (hellos and goodbyes respectively). He has not so much as alluded to our night in the cabin (re: the single greatest sex of my life), and too abashed to mention it, I too have remained silent about it.

I wonder if we might talk about it now.

I suppose he's been busy with his new models and managers and his company since we returned from the cabin. But this morning I received a terse text from him while I was in the bathroom: Please come by the office today. 2pm should work. Looking forward.

I shouldn't overthink the text, but of course I do, because what does looking forward mean, anyway? Looking forward to my honoring his request, or looking forward to seeing me? Are they the same, are they different, does it matter?

The thoughts swim and scatter about in my head, and by the time I've made it past the lobby and elevator, and am standing right before Alessandro's door, I am strung tight. I am vibrating nervousness, and my heart has definitely exploded in my mouth.

“Isabella’s here,” Patrick says as he opens the door. I hear Alessandro’s voice but I don’t make out his words.

Patrick steps aside to let me in, avoiding my eyes all the while.

Alessandro is sitting behind the desk when I enter, his fingers tapping at his Macbook. He comes to a halt as I near, and wordlessly gestures to the seat across.

I sit, crossing my legs, then uncrossing. Needles of discomfort prick my skin, but it is not the leather chair, it is not the freezing air or the orchestra of traffic drifting in from the windows.

It is from being alone in the same room with Alessandro after the last time we were alone.

A blush creeps up my face at the memory, damn it. I bite the insides of my cheeks.

Alessandro stares at me, his gaze bare and shameless. I wonder what he is thinking, but I don’t have to wonder too long. The impregnable look on his face melts away, and his lips curve upward in a radiant, astonishing smile.

God. After all this while, I still find him heart-stoppingly gorgeous. I wonder if that will ever change, then I realize that I don't want it to.

“Isabella,” he says smoothly, his eyes caressing me gently, and I become butter. I melt in his chair.

I clear my throat. My words must not croak out of my mouth like a frog today. “Alessandro,” I respond just as smoothly (I think).

“You look great,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. I look down at my long-sleeved shirt, my mini-skirt and (specially customized) heeled boots. I’m dressed just as regularly as I’ve always been since I’ve known Alessandro, but now I do feel different, as if something has changed.

Everything has.

“I’m pleased to hear that,” I say, alluding back to our night in Yosemite cabin while I called his name back and forth to ensure that the couch hadn’t swallowed him (yet). I think he might have forgotten, but Alessandro’s memory seems to be just as vivid as mine.

The corners of his eyes crinkle in a knowing smile, and he says just as I expect him to, “You better mean that.”

I do. He must know that I do. I don’t think that I need to say it; I think he sees it in his reflection in my eyes, in the heat that burns up my cheeks.

Alessandro leans in, and I swear – I swear – he is reaching for my hand across the desk.

Then he seems to catch himself. Quietly, he withdraws and slouches back in his seat.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

I sound as dumbfounded as I feel. “About what?”

“Your name’s everywhere.”

“Oh. That.”

“You’re America’s sweetheart now. An internet sensation.”

His words excite me as much as they scare me, and as though reading my thoughts he says in an understanding tone that sweetly gnaws at my heart, “I imagine it must come with a few hurdles of its own.”

“I’ll pull through,” I say. It is an attempt to sound breezy, indifferent, but of course the quiver in my voice betrays me.

“I imagine you must be drowning in a flood of invitations and contracts too.”

I clasp my hands together. “Yes.”

“How tempting are they, on a scale of very tempting to run-by-an-irresistible super-model-jerk-that-you-can’t-stand?” he asks, and despite the seriousness of the moment, I laugh aloud.

A short silence follows the sound of my laughter as it dies down. Alessandro clears his throat. “And are you considering any?” he asks, and just like that I realize this is why I’m here: he wants to know if I’m leaving him.

My heart sinks in my chest as it occurs to me that he might have been wracked with tension, waiting with bated breath for me to call him, to tell him I no longer wish to be with his agency because I no longer need him.

He’s probably been waiting for me to toss him to the side. It would explain his distance. It would explain everything.

God, all this while I’ve been thinking he wants nothing to do with me, while he’s been thinking that I’m done with him.

He clears his throat. “You didn’t sign a contract,” he reminds me. “I cannot make you stay, because you have no obligation to.”

I am holding my breath as I say, “You’re wrong.”

“What?”

“You can make me stay.”

I watch his features shift in understanding.

“Do you want me to stay?” My heart roars in my chest. I think I have a good enough idea that Alessandro might like me as much as I like him.

Still, the possibility of a negative response to the question has dread clawing at my chest.

His gaze holds my own as he answers, “I don’t want you to be away from DreamHearts.”

A pause. There is no air in the room. I am not breathing.

He adds softly, “And I don’t want you to be away from me.”

Silence sprawls between us.

Then, I am out of my seat at the same moment that he is, and we lunge for each other. Our kiss is relieved, yet hungry and desperate as our mouths explore. His hands play in my hair, his other hand pulling me tight against him and I feel there, already hard and aching for me.

A knock on the door startles us, and quickly we untangle from our embrace.

Alessandro smooths a hand through his hair, his lips smeared with (thankfully plain) lip gloss as Patrick pokes his head in. “The board’s on the phone for you,” he says in his quintessential effeminate voice. “Should I hold?”

“No, I’ll take it.” Alessandro turns to me. “A moment,” he says.

I smile. I feel so giddy, nothing could dampen my mood. “Sure,” I answer.

The door clicks behind me, and soon I am alone in Alessandro’s office.

I sigh happily as I lean into my seat, glancing around at the salt-white walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the expensive abstract paintings that line the walls, the trophies and plaques that line his oak and glass shelf.

I shouldn't look around.

Really, I know this in my brain, but my heart is jangled with excitement and all over the place, and I am too curious about this man that I like and who seems to like me back (Alessandro Milano likes me back!) that I slip out of my seat, wanting to know anything, hell, everything about this hunk of a man.

What makes his eyes glint with pleasure, what makes him tick, what keeps him up at night, what pulls at the strings of his heart.

The books piled high on his desk are mostly fashion magazines and essay collections about overcoming hurdles and fulfilling dreams, with fancy titles like Zero to Hero, and What the Most Powerful Men Can Do, You Can Do Too. I rifle through, unsure what I'm searching for (maybe some childhood picture of Alexandro hairless and toothless? Ha! That would be some sight), but I know that I'll recognize it when I see it.

I dally around with his rubik's cube, his certificates and some correspondence, some interesting but nothing intriguing, honestly. I'm about to give up on my secret endeavourendeavor when something catches my eye as I flip through an old journal from his bottom drawer.

Pictures. Of Alessandro.

I know it is him the second my gaze rests on it because I know the curve of that teasing smile, the way that the corners of his eyes crinkle before his lips move, as though they catch the humor before the rest of his face does.

His smile gives him away, because nothing else is the same. The Alessandro in this picture is fat, like the whole world knows he once was. His neck is obscure, folds and folds from his belly poking through his oversized shirt. I flip through the stacks of pictures, brimming with amazement at how this man managed to turn his life around and go from an overweight teenager, and work himself into one of the most successful top-rated models in the country.

I shake my head, smiling, filled with warmth for Alessandro.

Then, my smile dissolves from my face when I come across a picture of Alessandro in a blue-white hospital gown, grinning tiredly, almost shyly at the camera, a vague figure behind holding a bunch of balloons with the words !Happy New Weight! imprinted on it, along with it a slyly smiling emoji.

My heart beats furiously in my chest. I would like to think I have imagined this, yet I know this is real life. I am here, in Alessandro’s office, squinting at a picture I now wish I did not have in my hand.

It takes me a moment to understand what I am holding.

A scandal.

No, a lie.

My fingers tremble as I arrange the pictures back into a neat file and tuck them in the middle of his book.

Gastric bypass, I think.

He had gastric bypass surgery.

The words ring in my head, but I try to push them away.

He has sold the world a lie, because he did not work himself up from an overweight adolescent into one of America’s sexist men.

He bought it.

And he bought it with money, with access to the most expensive and exclusive hospital in Italy, with a gastric bypass surgery.

I stare at the picture, stunned beyond words.

Alessandro's voice cuts in my consciousness as he nears his office. "Forward the emails to me, Patrick. I’d much prefer if I didn’t have to remind you again."

The door clicks open and shuts behind him, and I smile at him, hopefully with the same level of brightness as before he left for his call with the board.

Alessandro returns to his seat, but he seems to be in a changed mood. His eyebrows are knitted tight, and a sole vein throbs in his temple.

I sit up immediately. "Is everything alright?"

To his credit, a smile lights up his face when his gaze flicks to me, "Everything's just fine, Isabella."

"Okay." Gastric bypass, I think. I cannot get it out of my head, hard as I try, and I hate myself for it, because I shouldn't care.

And really I don't.

I don't care that a gastric bypass was the way out that he chose. I don't even care that he lied to the media at the beginning of his career, that he sold the world a lie.

I only care because I wish that he had told me, and then I scold myself for it. He owes me nothing. Well, he owed me nothing.

Now that it's been established we like each other, I find myself yearning to know everything about him, yearning for him to tell me everything, even his gastric bypass.

I sigh and lean into my seat. We've come this far: I can be patient. I want to hear it from him. And I'll wait until he trusts me enough to tell me.

Alessandro's hand reaches for mine across his desk. I allow him take it, and he squeezes tightly. "What do you say," he says, his eyes soft and shining, "that I take you out on a proper date?"

"When?"

"You decide."

"Where?"

"You also decide." His eyes are gleaming and I love that I'm the reason why.

I tap my chin, making a show of thinking deeply about it. "Will this date end with me throwing a glass of champagne in your face?"

He takes my joke like a champ. "Hopefully not," he replies, “but you never know what the future holds."

My laugh is husky and open as I throw my head back. "Yes," I tell him. I am so far gone, I'd say yes a hundred times to his man, and I cannot wait for him to know it. I hold out a hand. "But only if we bicker."

Alessandro's smile begins from his eyes and cascades like a wave across his face. " I wouldn't have it any other way."

                                                                           Chapter Twenty-Four

My wine sparkles like shooting stars in my brain.

I am dizzy from expensive champagne, but also from good company.

We're dining at Le Bernadin. The gleaming lights are perfect. The menu is perfect too, my belly is testament to that as I am stuffed full of probably the best oysters I've ever had.

And of course Alessandro is perfect as he tells me a story about the one time his brother put glue in his dad's shoes. Then his brother managed to convince his dad it was him, and managed to get Alessandro to partner with him to shave their dad's eyebrow while he slept, for revenge for Alessandro getting grounded.

I laugh so hard, tears spill down my cheeks. "I must meet this brother!"

Alessandro's eyes twinkle in the lush lighting of the restaurant. "Maybe someday," he says.

They're simple words, but they caress my heart like a physical touch. Maybe someday. I give far more meaning to it than I should, chanting the words sweetly in my head over and over again.

Now we have a maybe between us.

Now we have a someday.

I drown my wine flute and like a good date, Alessandro fills it up without my even having to ask. God, how did I not want to kiss him senseless the first time I met him? How is it possible that I once hated this perfect, gorgeous man seated across from me in the most spectacularly cut suit I've ever seen on a man?

I am beaming foolishly at him, and he's beaming right back. He entertains me with more stories about his brother, a few others about his father. It is difficult to reconcile these lively tales about his family with the rocky relationship I know him to currently have with his father.

I am obviously (maybe tipsily) fishing for more when I say it aloud, "That's difficult to reconcile."

He lifts an impeccable eyebrow. "What is?" he answers.

"Your stories," I say, "with my knowledge of your present relationship with your father."

"Oh," Alessandro says. His face becomes an impenetrable shield once more, and I begin to feel bad, berating myself, wishing I had not soured the mood.

But to my surprise, Alessandro's expression softens, the visible tension in his forehead giving way to a placid look as he says, "I've never been great at. . .accepting help. Since when I was a child,. I liked to fix things myself, to grind myself down until my hurdles are a thing behind me." A small pause, and he adds jokingly, "I think it might have something to do with my sizable ego."

"Some might call it ginormous, but do go on."

He laughs at that. He goes on, "But that didn't affect our relationship in the beginning. I think we got off to a great start. Then in my teenage years. . .I wanted to do something, and he encouraged me to."

"What's wrong with that?"

"It required a lot of help,” says Alessandro, “From a lot of people. Him included, of course. I guess I was the better for it, but after the relief came. . .I don't know. Shame, I guess. I needed someone to be angry at for not doing it all by myself, for allowing anyone else lay their hands in my life and turn it around, and. . .I guess it was easy to blame the man who encouraged me to do what I'd been thinking about for a while."

He sighs, and I swear his shoulders physically droop in relief, as if he had been carrying a burden that now weighs lighter over his back.

I try to avoid his eyes, picking deliberately at my plate, because I'm afraid that if I lift my head and hold his gaze, Alessandro will take one look at me and know that I know what he's talking about.

Because I do know.

I knew the moment he began to talk about it that he was referring to his gastric bypass surgery. I drown my fourth (God, fifth?) glass of wine and swallow hard. "I don't think that's fair to him."

"I know it isn't," he says.

We're quiet for a long moment.

"Maybe I'm just a ginormous asshole."

I grin. "Hey, I'd be willing to cut down on my assessment of the size if you tried to talk to him."

"My dad?"

"Yes. I like him."

"He likes you."

"Of course he does: the whole of America does."

He leans in closer, and gently takes my hand in his. My heart sings in my chest. "So do I," he murmurs softly. "So do I."

I avert my eyes, feeling suddenly, foolishly shy. God, I am so happy I could die.

Everything in my life is literally falling into place. My modelling career is taking off in the brightest colors, and I am on a date with a man I am crazy about, and who seems to feel the same way.

I think it only gets better from here, and I cannot wait to sit back, relax and watch the rest of my life glamorously unfold.

The rest of the evening sparkles like the champagne in my head, and I basically vomit my entire life story to Alessandro (might feel abashed about it tomorrow, can't say yet). I tell him about my relationship with my mum (loving but humorless), with my dad (present but aloof), with Ronnie (as easygoing as the word allows), with my sister (what you get is really what you're left with no choice but to accept with Kate).

I tell him about Jolie, my pet fish who I didn't know for the longest time had been dead for months and kept getting replaced every few months (when it died) by my mother behind my back, and Alessandro laughs and drinks his wine. "On the bright side they did save you the trauma of grief," he says.

"Yes, but think about the trauma that I was left to untangle knowing that Jolie had been in his grave even since before my birthday."

He leans in close. His eyes gleam bright, and it warms my heart that he looks to be having as great a time as I am. "Gonna’ need a number,” he declares. “How many reincarnations after Jolie? Are we talking two?"

I shake my head.

"Four?"

Now he looks dubious, his mouth slacking open. "What, 8?"

"My mother refuses to tell me till this day, but it's generally accepted that it's in the tens."

Alessandro's mouth falls open, and he laughs hard.

We walk out of the restaurant laughing, grinning at each other, kissing like we cannot keep our hands off each other (and can we!?). God, I feel like I am in some dreamy romantic movie.

The wind is a perfect rustle in my hair, the street lights burn like fireworks in the beautiful distance, the moon shines down on us, hanging in the sky like a half broken silver bowl.

We laugh at everything. We bicker and kiss at every juncture.

We get in the backseat of his limo and Alessandro gives his driver directions to my home. Then he presses a button and rolls the glass all the way up, and we are all alone to ourselves now.

I waste absolutely no time to devour this beautiful man.

I arch into him, taking his mouth into my own, kissing him until I feel my nipples harden under my blouse. His tongue flicking my own is hardly enough for me, and soon I am moaning into his open mouth. I straddle Alessandro, grind against his already erect dick straining in his pants taut.

I kiss his neck and nibble his ear and reach for the zip of his pants, but his hand clasping gently over my own stops me.

"What?" I whisper.

"Nothing," he says, and visibly hesitates, then comes out with it: "But I don't want our second time to happen here."

"Back of a limo is fine enough for me," I assure him as I tug at the buttons of his suit.

"I don't want fine enough," he says fiercely. "I want meaningful." He kisses my forehead. "I want motherfucking fantastic.'' He pulls my hand against his mouth and plants the most tender kiss into my open palm.

Like an idiot, I am too turned on to admit that he is right. I bring his thumb to my hardened nipples, and a coy smile grows on his mouth as he circles it without touching it.

I arch into him, a wordless cry breaking from my mouth. I press my lips to his ear. "How about a quickie? You know you want to. You know quickies make the world go round."

"I don't want to have a quickie with you," says Alessandro. He bites down gently on the curve of my neck as he whispers, "I want to fuck you all night. I want to spread you wide and stroke you so deep you can hardly walk the next morning."

"Alessandro," I shamelessly beg.

"And I'm willing to wait for the right time for that."

He clasps his hands over my waist. Gently, he scoops me off his legs, but not before dropping a soft kiss on my temple.

"Fine," I say, my wounded pride salvaged by the smile that I see blossoming on the corner of his mouth. "But you've just rejected me and I'll never forget it."

"I believe you," he says.

I playfully jab my finger in his chest. "You haven't heard the last of me."

He peels my poking finger from his suit, brings it to his face. "You better mean that," he says, his gaze locking deeply on my own as he sucks it into his mouth.

I gasp, my belly catching fire as I watch his mouth move. I swear my panties are dripping.

We kiss and bicker for the rest of the ride, and when the limo pulls up in front of my house I am reluctant to get out of the limo. I totter (tipsy, ha) on my feet, and Alessandro steadies me with a hand to the small of my back as he walks me to the door.

He kisses me goodnight, and after waving at each other like teenagers on their first date, I stumble into my house.

My father is in the dining room when I enter.