“She can’t do the luncheon,” William said, pacing the foyer of the Estate. “Beatrice is… indisposed.”
“She’s drunk, William,” Isabella Moretti corrected, adjusting her silk scarf. “She’s crumbling.”
Isabella looked at the chaos. Beatrice was spiraling, Victoria was upstairs nursing the invalid, and the brothers were under siege by the auditor. There was a power vacuum, and the press was circling, hungry for rumors about Alistair’s “disappearance”.
“I’ll do it,” Isabella announced.
“Bella, you just moved back,” Malcolm warned. ” The press will eat you alive.”
“I was raised in Rome, Malcolm,” she smiled, checking her reflection in the mirror. “I know how to handle lions.”
Two hours later, Isabella stood at the podium of the charity gala. She was radiant, charming, and utterly composed. She spun a narrative of a family uniting to care for their stricken patriarch, dismissing the rumors of financial ruin with a laugh. She wasn’t just the spare’s wife anymore; she was the Diplomat the family desperately needed.