Chapter 2: The Weight of Legacy (2)
Arthur reached for one of the pill bottles with trembling hands.
"Dad." Isabelle stood, crossing to him. "Let me—"
"I'm fine." But his fingers couldn't manage the childproof cap. She opened it for him, watching him swallow the nitrate tablet that would ease the crushing pain in his chest.
This was what Silas Stone's efficiency looked like up close. Not just numbers on a ledger, but her father's shaking hands and ragged breathing. A man who'd built a respectable business over three decades reduced to swallowing pills in the ruins of his study.
"There's something else," Pemberton said quietly. "This arrived by courier twenty minutes ago."
He produced a cream-colored envelope, heavy stock, embossed with a logo Isabelle recognized immediately: Stone Global Enterprises.
Her hands steadied as she opened it. Whatever this was, it wouldn't be kind.
The envelope contained two items: a bound contract, thirteen pages thick, and a single note card in bold masculine handwriting.
Your family's salvation—if you have the courage to pay the price. -S.S.
Isabelle's vision tunneled. She flipped through the contract, words leaping out like weapons: marriage, one year term, cohabitation requirements, public appearances, binding arbitration.
A marriage contract.
Silas Stone was offering to save her family in exchange for her as his wife.
"I don't understand," she said, though she was beginning to.
Pemberton pulled out another document—a red leather ledger, old-fashioned and meticulous. "Stone Global's legal team contacted me three days ago. They wanted me to see this before the offer arrived."
Isabelle opened the ledger. Each page detailed a debt acquisition: the mortgage on the Van Estel estate, the operational loans for the hotels, the credit lines, the vendor obligations. Every single debt, purchased over six months from the original creditors.
Purchased by Stone Global Enterprises.
By Silas Stone.
"He owns everything," Pemberton said. "Every dollar your family owes, every creditor who could force bankruptcy—he bought them all out. Systematically. Starting six months ago, right after the Chandler collapse stabilized."
Isabelle's mind raced backward. The Chandler takeover had happened a year ago. Silas had waited six months for the dust to settle, then began acquiring Van Estel debt like chess pieces, maneuvering them into absolute dependence.
This wasn't opportunity. This was architecture.
He'd engineered their ruin and then positioned himself as their only salvation, knowing exactly what price he'd demand.
"Isabelle," Arthur said hoarsely. "You don't have to—"
"Don't." She held up a hand, cutting him off.
Because they both knew the truth: she was his only child, heir to nothing but debt and a dying name. If she refused, her father would lose everything—the business his family built, the estate where his wife was buried, the legacy that had sustained the Van Estel name for a century.
And his heart, already fragile, already drowning in stress medication, would give out under the final blow.
"I need to think," Isabelle said.
She retreated to her childhood bedroom, untouched since university, still decorated in the cream and gold elegance of old money restraint. The marriage contract sat heavy in her hands.
She remembered the charity gala three years ago where she'd first encountered Silas Stone. He'd been holding court with new-money tech founders and private-equity sharks, his contempt for the old-money elite palpable. When someone had introduced them, he'd assessed her with cold gray eyes and said: Old money. Pretty, decorative, and utterly useless in an economy that rewards innovation over inheritance.
She'd hated him on sight.
Now he wanted to marry her. Not for love, obviously. For respectability. For legitimacy. For whatever business purpose required a Van Estel heiress on his arm.
Isabelle pulled out her phone and dialed the number printed on the Stone Global letterhead.
A crisp female voice answered. "Stone Global Enterprises, executive office."
"This is Isabelle Van Estel," she said, her voice steady. "Tell Mr. Stone I'll meet with him to discuss his proposal."
"Of course, Miss Van Estel. Mr. Stone has reserved Thursday at ten a.m. We'll send a car."
The call ended.
Isabelle looked at the contract in her hands, at the note with Silas Stone's bold signature, at her reflection in the vanity mirror—still composed, still the ice princess of Zenith City society.
She had seventy-two hours to decide if her family's legacy—and her father's life—were worth becoming the one thing she'd sworn never to be: a transaction in Silas Stone's portfolio.
**