Page 5 of Hunter

Isabella Espinosa’s Residence, Knightsbridge

Isabella

My cell sits poised on the stand I bought specifically for making my online content. The small dance studio I made in my house is so bland it’s impossible to guess the location. I stand surrounded by three walls of mirrors and prepare to create my content for the day. Before I begin, I slip the pink Lycra face mask over my head, press record, and smile widely at the camera.

When I began my social media page two years ago, the last thing I planned to create was a following or a career. My idea had been to document my journey into a healthier lifestyle, no more, no less. But apparently, people want to watch a mysterious curvy girl dressed in pink wiggle her hips. So, with that,CurvyGurlsCanJigglewas born.

Over the past twenty-four months, I’ve not only improved my health and my own financial position, but my confidence has soared. For once, people are approaching me for me. Well, not me, but the girl on the screen who is visible proof that anyone can dance. As my views climbed, so did my followers, and then came the offers of brand influencing. Slowly but surely, I’ve built an income large enough to live on. Perhaps not in my current home, but somewhere quiet, out of the way, and far from the clutches of my family or husband.

Once my video is complete, I upload and close down the phone I use for work, then stow my mask away for next time. My personal phone contains no information about my little enterprise. No one knows except me and the one person I trust in this world.Ronan.

When he was assigned to me three years ago, I was taken aback by his appearance. Tall and rugged, he’s nothing like the clean-shaven, sharp-suited men who have protected me before. The horrid scar on his face, a result of a knife attack in his twenties, is a stark reminder of the world we live in and the danger that can lurk around each corner.

But once my initial hesitation passed and we started talking, I realized that Ronan is possibly the most genuine person I have ever met. After a matter of weeks, it was clear he cared for not only my safety but also my well-being. On the days I didn’t want to exercise or eat well, he would encourage me by pulling on his running shoes and stepping out of the door beside me.

I know there are rumors about us, but there has never been any indication he sees me as more than a lady he is to look after. The man has a wife and a football team of children at home, whom he cares for greatly. I’ve seen the photograph of them he carries in his wallet. But I will allow the gossipers to talk; if they are chastising us, they may leave someone else alone. Their opinion is not my concern.

My bedroom is next door to my home studio in my home. As I push the door open, the sweet scent of vanilla hits my nostrils from the new candle I treated myself to. Kasia, my housekeeper, knows exactly how I like my bedroom. Since she started with me a few months ago, the house has never felt more like home.

Her soft lilt floats along the corridor as she sings. I leave my door open a fraction so I can listen to the notes. She does have a beautiful voice. My mind wanders to how she ended up here in London, far from her home country of Russia. When I asked her before, she smiled and said she needed work. No more details have ever been forthcoming, but I’m delighted the agency sent her to me. She always greets me with a smile, and that is the sort of person I need in my life.

I move over to my dressing table and stare at my copy of Hunter and my divorce agreement. This document has caused me so much distress these past months since I requested its creation. The questioning of myself and my ability to live on my own has been unbearable but necessary. As I sit down and begin to thumb through the pages again, my mind wanders back to that night, the night that should have been my happiest with my husband…but it wasn’t to be.

Twenty years ago, I stood looking in the full-length mirror in my parents’ English manor house as I waited to be called to marry the man I loved. Hunter and I met as children, and what started as childish fascination developed into true love. Our parents were close in both business and friendship, and our marriage was arranged years before we met. But we were one of the few couples from our world who went into wedlock in love. We were lucky, or so I thought.

Our teen years were spent conversing by letter. I would spend hours writing to Hunter, telling him about my day and what duties my mother had inflicted on me. His response would come a week or so later, a detailed reply that would empathize with my situation and my barbaric parents who expected me to tidy my room or walk the dog.

When I think back to my upbringing and how outwardly spoiled I was, I’m amazed that he loved me at all. Mother would ask me to do something, and I would smile sweetly before replying, “Surely we have staff for that.” The memory makes me cringe, but I’ve learned a lot since then. The girl raised in riches has grown in solitude. I finally know who I am.

I pull open the middle drawer of my dressing table and pick out the small pink envelope now faded with age. I carefully extract the letter, my favorite one. The rest are conscientiously packed away. As I unfold the aged pages, I lift the paper to my nose and sniff. If I close my eyes, I can imagine the scent it used to carry—Hunter’s aftershave. The one I bought him for his eighteenth birthday.

The name has gone from my memory, but I still remember the bottle. It was light blue in the shape of a bodice with white stripes. I saved my pocket money to buy it for him, and he wore it every time he saw me and sprayed it on every letter. The memory makes my heart ache.

My eyes drop to the words on the page, scanning the handwritten lines I’ve read thousands of times. This was my boy, my man, my person, and I lost him. We lost each other. The reality cuts like a knife.

My Darling Bella. You are the sun in my day. The light in my life. And in a few years soon to be my wife.

A giggle escapes my throat with his idiotic cheesiness. Hunter always had the ability to make me smile, make me feel heard. His letters were a source of pure joy for me. When our parents suggested email, we refused. How could we explain the importance of the physical paper between our fingertips? The scent that struck a chord in my heart and lit me up like wildfire. Our correspondence was so much more than just words. It was a feeling, an experience that started as the pen touched the paper, and ended when the recipient read the words.

As I finish reading his childish love letter, I slowly refold the prized possession and put it back in the safety of its resting place to be read again another day. A day where I need to smile or remember that at one point in my life I found true love. But as the wonderful memories recede, the ugly one’s surface, and my thoughts move to the night it all ended.

Our wedding was a winter one and, as if by magic, the universe obliged, covering London in snow overnight. I had gazed in the mirror at my reflection in my long white gown encrusted in sparkles, a white fur stole around my shoulders. The smile on my face had been genuine as my family came to see me before we headed to the church. My two sisters grabbed my fingers, and we jumped up and down in a circle of excitement about the day ahead. Our mother had planned everything with precision.

My father appeared then, with the same impassive expression on his face he tended to wear, but as his eyes ran over me, they lit up with what I hoped was pride—pride that I was his daughter and was not only marrying the man he chose but also the one I loved and who loved me. He stepped forward, offering me his arm, and we made our way to the cars and on to the church to meet my future husband.

St. Paul’s Cathedral is an impressive building in its own right. The dome and clock tower stand proud above the city, surrounded by greenery. My mother had outshone herself in decorating the entrance with dozens of festive flowers in reds and whites. It was an uncharacteristically bright December day in London, and the normally elusive sunshine reflected off the sheet of white snow. The light danced and sparkled, adding to the magical atmosphere.

My father opened my door, and I stepped out onto the pavement. The red shoes hidden by my dress appeared momentarily, then disappeared once again beneath the silk. My father scowled, noticing the garish color, but I smiled back brightly. Nothing was going to ruin the happiest day of my life—the day I became Mrs. Hunter Devane.

“You always have to push the boundaries, Isabella,” he muttered, the Irish lilt stronger.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way, Papa,” I replied smoothly, relishing in my small defiance. My teen years were filled with pushback; now, I was running free.

“At least you will be his problem from today on…” My father’s reproach faded as he slipped my arm through his, but it stung until we entered the cathedral, however much I told myself it didn’t.

My father loved us, his girls, in his own way, but I know there was always an overarching aura of disappointment that our mother had not given him a son. As the oldest and first to marry, it was on my shoulders to provide him with a grandson. No doubts had been made that I was expected to start reproducing immediately, whether myself or my husband wanted to or not. Me being married off was for business and birth, two responsibilities that were now mine to shoulder.

Inside, the cathedral was packed with guests from each respective family They all stood as we walked down the aisle to the wedding march blazing triumphantly from the organ. I tried to take in the cathedral in all its grandeur, the stunning depictions on the walls that have been there for centuries. But my focus could only be on one person, Hunter.

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