Chapter 3
The door to my hospital room swung open with a soft click, pulling me from my feverish half-sleep. Gabriel stood in the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the hallway lights. For one foolish moment, my heart leapt—had he finally come to check on me? To apologize?
The illusion shattered as he stepped into the room. His face was composed, almost business-like, devoid of the warmth he so easily manufactured for cameras and co-stars. Under his arm, he carried a sleek leather portfolio.
"You're awake. Good." His voice was cool, detached. "This won't take long."
Alexander had stepped out to make arrangements for my transfer back to New York. The timing wasn't coincidental—Gabriel had waited until my brother was gone.
"How's Scarlett?" The words escaped before I could stop them, bitter and sharp.
Gabriel's expression didn't change. "She's resting. The doctor gave her something for shock." He placed the portfolio on the rolling table beside my bed and opened it, revealing crisp legal documents. "I've had my lawyers draw these up."
I stared at the papers, the bold heading swimming before my fever-blurred vision: Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
"You want a divorce." My voice sounded distant, as though it belonged to someone else.
"It's for the best." Gabriel straightened his designer jacket, not quite meeting my eyes. "This situation has become... complicated. A liability."
"A liability," I repeated, the word hollow in my mouth.
"The studio is concerned about potential media leaks. If word gets out about our arrangement while Scarlett and I are promoting the film..." He cleared his throat. "The optics would be problematic."
The optics. Not my broken leg. Not the years I'd given him. The optics.
"I've ensured the settlement is generous." He slid a pen across the table. "My team has already spoken with the hospital. They'll release you to a private recovery facility once you've signed."
I looked at the pen, then at the man I'd once believed would love me forever. In his perfect features, I searched for any trace of the person who had once whispered promises under starlight, who had held me as though I were precious. There was nothing—just the polished facade of Gabriel Sterling, A-list actor, protecting his image and his precious Scarlett.
With surprising steadiness, I reached for the pen. The movement sent pain shooting through my body, but I didn't flinch. I was done flinching.
Gabriel blinked, clearly surprised by my lack of resistance. "You're... agreeing?"
"Did you expect me to beg?" I asked quietly, flipping to the signature page. "To plead for another chance to be your secret?"
"Isabella—"
"Eight years, Gabriel." The pen hovered over the signature line. "Eight years of watching you love her in public while I existed in shadows."
His jaw tightened. "It wasn't like that."
"It was exactly like that." With a swift, decisive motion, I signed my name—my real name, Isabella Morgan—to the document. "And now it's over."
I handed him back the papers, our fingers not touching. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—uncertainty, perhaps even regret—but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
"I'll have these filed immediately," he said, returning the documents to the portfolio. He hesitated at the door. "For what it's worth, I never meant for things to end this way."
I turned my face toward the window, where the first hints of dawn were breaking over Los Angeles. "They ended long before today, Gabriel. I just finally stopped pretending otherwise."
The door closed behind him with a soft click, the sound of one chapter of my life ending and another beginning.
Three days later, I limped into the modest apartment Gabriel's team had arranged—a temporary residence until I was well enough to travel. The place was sterile, impersonal, like a mid-range hotel suite. I lowered myself carefully onto the sofa, my cast a heavy weight on my leg.
With trembling fingers, I unwrapped the bandages around my thigh, grimacing at the angry red skin surrounding my stitches. The hospital discharge had been rushed, the aftercare instructions minimal. I cleaned the wound carefully, redressed it with supplies Alexander had insisted on purchasing, then reached for my phone.
It was time.
The line rang twice before my father's voice filled the speaker. "Isabella?" The worry in his tone made my throat tighten.
"Dad," I whispered, the word breaking on a sob I hadn't known was building.
"Oh, sweetheart." His voice was warm, solid—the voice that had guided me through childhood scrapes and teenage heartbreaks. "Alexander told us everything. We've been so worried."
"I'm sorry," I managed. "I should have called sooner. I should have—"
"None of that matters now," he interrupted gently. "What matters is that you're coming home. Where you belong."
Home. The word resonated through me, stirring memories of the Morgan estate overlooking the Hudson, family dinners in the grand dining room, the security of belonging somewhere—to someone.
"Yes," I said, strength returning to my voice. "I'm coming home."
As I hung up, my gaze fell on a magazine someone had left on the coffee table. Gabriel's perfect face smiled up at me from the cover, his arm around Scarlett at some premiere. The headline read: "Hollywood's Perfect Pair."
I picked up the magazine, studied it for a long moment, then deliberately dropped it into the trash can beside me. That life was over. Isabella Sterling was gone.
Isabella Morgan was ready to reclaim her life.
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