Married to the Wrong CEO

Chapter 25: 50 million to leave Dante

"Oh—this is also lovely! I like the buttons... and this too! The zip is unique!" Isadora exclaimed, her eyes sparkling as she leaned closer to the open catalog, pointing at another page like a child discovering treasure.

The two assistants standing beside her froze mid-scribble. Their pens hovered above their notepads, eyes darting toward each other in confusion. The polite smiles that had been plastered on their faces began to twitch.

"Buttons... and a zip?" one of them whispered under her breath.

"Together?" mouthed the other, unsure whether to actually write it down or pretend she hadn’t heard it.

But Isadora was far too absorbed in her own imaginings to notice the tension. Her fingers traced the glossy page with absent fascination as she murmured, "Imagine if this train were longer, but with the lace from page twelve... and those tiny crystals from here..."

The assistants’ pens hovered awkwardly again, their glances silently begging each other for rescue. Finally, one of them cleared her throat and said gently, "My Lady, your preferences have been noted. You will receive notice once the first design is prepared."

Isadora straightened with a delighted smile, completely satisfied. "Perfect," she said cheerfully, finally reaching for the teacup beside her.

The porcelain was warm against her fingers. But the moment the liquid touched her tongue, she flinched slightly. The taste was heavier than she expected—thick and almost buttery—with a bitterness that lingered unpleasantly. Still, she forced a polite smile, set the cup down, and rose gracefully to her feet.

"Thank you. I look forward to seeing the results," she said, her tone warm but distant.

Ettore, who had been standing quietly at her back, instantly moved to her side as she turned toward the door. They had barely taken two steps when a sudden presence blocked their path.

A woman entered.

She was elegance personified—dressed in a tailored ivory suit that clung to her frame with effortless sophistication. Her jewelry was minimal yet unmistakably expensive, each piece chosen with precision rather than vanity. Behind her trailed a tall, broad-shouldered man whose silence declared his role more clearly than any introduction could.

Isadora instinctively slowed, her natural politeness prompting her to step aside and let the woman pass. But the stranger did not move past her. Instead, she halted directly in front of Isadora.

Her gaze swept over Isadora slowly—not unkind, but assessing. It was the gaze of an artist examining a painting, of a collector evaluating something rare and delicate.

"Let’s have lunch upstairs," the woman said, her voice smooth, measured, and calm. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a decision already made. "We have much to discuss."

Isadora blinked, momentarily stunned. "Pardon?" she asked softly, wondering if she had misheard.

The woman’s lips curved faintly. "You heard me."

"You must have mistaken me for someone else," Isadora replied quickly, her tone polite but firm. She stared at the woman—poised, confident, wrapped in quiet power—and felt certain she had never seen her before in her life. "I’m afraid you have me confused with another person."

"I don’t think so," the woman said easily, her smile deepening.

"I’m quite sure we’ve never met," Isadora continued, forcing a soft, courteous smile. The woman before her had the kind of presence that screamed old money—her posture, her clothes, the calm assurance in her tone. Every inch of her said she had never known struggle.

I’m certain we’ve never met, Isadora thought, trying to make sense of the encounter.

"My name is—"

"Isadora! I’m well aware," the woman interrupted smoothly, that gentle smile still on her lips.

Isadora hesitated, momentarily thrown off.

"My name is Namira," the woman continued.

The name struck something faintly familiar in Isadora’s memory. She squinted slightly, trying to place where she’d heard it before.

"Namira Bellini," the woman added, and the recognition hit like a spark.

"Oh," Isadora breathed, her lips parting in sudden realization.

"Dante mentioned me?" Namira asked with a soft smile that carried the faintest touch of sentiment. Her eyes softened as she spoke his name—an expression Isadora recognized instantly. It was the look of someone fond, perhaps even affectionate.

"He’s a cold and hard man," Namira said lightly, her voice tinged with affection and resignation. "But he’s still my nephew."

Isadora blinked again, unsure what to say. She nodded quickly, forcing a small polite smile. "I see..."

Inside, her thoughts churned.

He told me to run... Wasn’t he just exaggerating?

She glanced discreetly at the woman before her—elegant, refined, smiling in a way that could almost be called tender. Nothing about her seemed threatening.

He must have meant someone else, Isadora told herself, some other relative. Surely not her.

Namira’s gaze never wavered. "You don’t mind having a short chat, do you?" she asked, still smiling warmly.

Isadora found herself nodding before she could think better of it. freewēbnoveℓ.com

After all, they were in a public place—people all around, sunlight spilling across marble floors. Ettore was right behind her, a silent but solid presence. What harm could possibly come from a conversation?

Namira’s expression brightened. "Wonderful. Come," she said, gesturing elegantly toward the staircase.

Isadora followed, her curiosity outweighing her unease. The soft clack of their heels echoed as they ascended, and when they reached the upper level, a waiter instantly ushered them to a quiet corner—an isolated table with no one seated nearby.

Namira took her seat first, her movements graceful and deliberate. Isadora sat opposite her, expecting to be bombarded with questions. Instead, Namira simply turned to the waiter who appeared beside them.

"I’ll have some Mechanola tea," she said. Her tone was gentle, but it carried authority. freёwebnovel.com

The waiter nodded and turned expectantly to Isadora.

"I’ll have the same," Isadora said quickly, barely glancing at the menu. The name alone sounded unusual, and she had no real interest in discovering what it tasted like. She just didn’t want to seem impolite.

As the waiter retreated, silence settled between them.

Namira leaned back in her chair, her eyes studying Isadora—not in hostility, but with careful consideration. It wasn’t the kind of scrutiny that made one squirm; it was more like she was observing the shape of a thought.

"Tell me," Namira said after a moment, "you’re interested in flowers, aren’t you?"

Isadora blinked, surprised by the question since that was last thing she had been expecting the woman in front of her to ask her.