Page 8 of Unraveling an Enigma
“You're fired,” Isaac informs him, his tone stern.
What?
My eyes snap back to Isaac. “Isaac, no, I’m not saying it was Hugo. I’m just saying it wasn’t me,” I babble.
The air is sucked from my lungs from the sheer closeness of Isaac’s handsome face when he turns back to face me.
“You've declared it wasn’t you. So either Hugo told them I lived here, or he let the surveillance team follow me here,” he snarls. “So unless you recount your confession, Hugo is fired.”
My gaze turns to Hugo. He shakes his head, advising me not to fall into Isaac’s trap of falsely confessing. I can’t let Hugo take the blame for this. He’s worked for Isaac for years, and with everything going on in Isaac’s life right now, he needs someone like Hugo in his corner.
Tears well in my eyes at a rapid pace as I return my gaze to Isaac. He is gasping for air so desperately, his chest thrusts up and down with every inhale he takes. His whole body is shuddering with uncontrollable rage.
Before I can lose the nerve, I murmur, “It was me,” as the first lot of tears streak down my pale face.
My tear-stained face tilts to the side as my eyes shift around the room. I need to look at anything but Isaac’s entrancing eyes. If I maintain eye contact with him, he will know I’m lying. His eyes see my soul, so he will perceive my deceit.
“Look at me, Isabelle,” Isaac demands, his voice hoarse and filled with emotion.
I keep my eyes planted on a pile of crumpled papers.
The hairs on the nape bristle when the top half of Isaac’s body leans in close. My heart clenches and my chest aches when he says, “Get out of my house before I show you the true criminal I am.”
He pulls away so viciously, a blast of hot air flutters against my overheated body and face. He strides to a bar in his office to refill his crystal glass with whiskey. Once the glass overflows so much that whiskey sloshes over the rim and is absorbed by the expensive plush carpet, he returns to the original position I found him in.
I stand still in shock, watching him in silence. His gaze never once turns back to me. He is so angry, he can’t stand the sight of me.
I jump out of my skin when Hugo squeezes my shoulder.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
Placing his outstretched arm around my shoulder, he guides me down the hallway. Every step I take away from Isaac makes my heart crack more. Once we are halfway down the hall, glass being smashed sounds out of Isaac’s office. I stop dead in my tracks, a shiver running down my spine. I attempt to pivot around, but Hugo holds on firmly as he continues to walk down the hall.
“He needs some time, Izzy,” he mutters under his breath.
By the time I make it to Isaac’s town car, shock has set in. Everything around me is blurred, and my stomach feels heavy.
For a majority of the drive, Hugo remains quiet. I keep my gaze planted on the dark, gloomy sky. There is not a single star in the heavens tonight. Even it can feel the darkness brewing in my stomach.
“You shouldn’t have lied, Izzy,” Hugo says as he pulls the car to the curb at the front of my apartment building.
My eyes turn from the passenger window to see his blue eyes peering at the black sky. They’re full of apprehension and remorse.
“Who said I lied?” My voice is as weak as my excuse.
His eyes snap to mine as he huffs. “Come on, Izzy, don’t treat me like an idiot. I know you lied.” His tone is a cross between angry and remorseful. “I just don’t understand why you did it. Isaac will never forgive you if he thinks you deceived him.”
“I did deceive him. I may not have told them about his house, but I did deceive him. I’ve been lying to him for months,” I interrupt as more tears spill from my eyes.I should have told him the truth from the beginning.
Not giving Hugo an opportunity to reply, I scramble out of Isaac’s car and dash toward my apartment building as quickly as my quivering legs will take me.
Isaac
Glass shattering against a bookshelf fills the silent void that has encroached upon my office since Isabelle and Hugo left a few moments ago. I’ll admit it, I did handle the situation poorly, but I’ve been pushed passed my limits and am somewhat drunk, so Isabelle copped the brunt of my fury.
My house, my private residence, the one thing that was just for me, has been trashed beyond recognition. Expensive paintings I’ve been collecting for years have been destroyed beyond repair. Antique furniture has been slashed with box cutters, and priceless ornaments have been chipped and broken, but even more concerning to me is how much damage was done to the personal items with a high sentimental value. I can’t replace those things. They are irreplaceable. The FBI didn’t need to complete their search the way they did. Whoever did this wanted to get personal. They wanted to attract my attention. Well, now they have it.
This morning, when I was arrested, I felt Isabelle’s presence before I saw her. That isn’t uncommon. Isabelle has that effect on me and any other red-blooded men she meets. It only takes talking to Isabelle for mere seconds for people to become infatuated with her. When I turned toward Isabelle, I had expected to see her in her regular comfortable clothes and was prepared to instruct her not to panic about the situation she just emerged herself in. So, you can imagine my surprise when I discovered she was dressed in a bulletproof vest with FBI plastered across the front of it and a Bureau-issued revolver in her hands.
