Behind Closed Doors and Broken Dreams

Chapter 1

The sharp sound of a slap echoed as the door swung open.
Isabella Fairweather stumbled, dizzy and disoriented, and grabbed the door frame to steady herself.
“You little brat, how dare you hit Lord William! Have you grown some wings?” Richard Fairweather roared.
“I hit him because otherwise, I’d be waiting for him to take advantage of me! Father, am I really worth only eighty thousand dollars in your eyes?” Isabella shot back, her voice trembling with anger.
“Ungrateful little brat! Do you even know what you are?” he spat.
“In the industry, how many sleazy guys have you slept with? You think I don’t know? If it weren’t for your sister Eleanor trying to save your name, you wouldn’t even set foot in this house!” Richard continued, contempt dripping from his words.
What protection? Eleanor was only spreading rumors about her!
No wonder their father always stopped her from taking roles out of town!
It was laughable how easily he believed such baseless accusations.
Isabella clenched her fists, her voice hoarse and heartbroken as she asked, “So you believe everything she says? You think I’m lying when I tell you I did nothing wrong? Am I really that repugnant in your eyes?”
Richard sneered, pointing at the bruises and hickeys on her neck. “Don’t play innocent with me. Look at those disgusting marks and tell me they didn’t come from somewhere!”
Isabella instinctively covered her neck, shaking with humiliation. The mocking laughs echoed in her ears, piercing her like daggers.
She knew that even if she presented evidence, no one would believe her.
“You’re coming with me to apologize to Lord William. If you dare refuse, I’ll make you kneel!” Richard barked.
“I won’t go! I’d rather die than apologize!” Isabella refused, having finally escaped the claws of their twisted world. There was no way she'd voluntarily return to that hell.
“Too bad, that’s not a choice you get to make!” Richard grabbed her and dragged her toward the car, forcing her to accompany him to the hospital.
As soon as they entered Lord William’s upscale hospital room, Richard plastered on a fake smile. “Lord William, I’m really sorry for bothering you again, but I brought Isabella this time. She knows she was wrong last night and came to apologize to you personally.”
Lying in the hospital bed, Lord William’s face was as dark as a thundercloud. “Damn it! My privilege was almost taken from me! You think a simple ‘I’m sorry’ is enough?” he bellowed.
Richard froze, afraid to say anything as he recognized that Lord William was still furious.
Waiting nearby, Eleanor wasn’t about to let Isabella off easy.
She immediately fanned the flames, saying to Richard, “Father, this is our last chance. We can’t disappoint Lord William. Let’s have her kneel to show our sincerity. Maybe then he won’t press charges against us.”
Kneel?
Though it was a brutal suggestion, it was better than forcing the entire family to suffer because of her mistakes.
Richard gritted his teeth. “You're right. Isabella needs to pay a price in order to learn!”
He turned to face Lord William's bed and shoved Isabella forward with force. “What are you waiting for? Hurry up and kneel in front of Lord William. Beg him for forgiveness.”
Kneel and beg for forgiveness?
How could he, as her own father, say such cold-hearted words without considering her dignity or self-respect?
Isabella shot a fierce glare at Eleanor, knowing it was her twisted idea.
Isabella Fairweather vowed she would never kneel to a greasy, twisted man, no matter what.
“I did nothing wrong. Why should I kneel?”
Richard was furious, nearly beside himself with rage. How on earth did he end up with a daughter who didn’t understand the reality of their world?
“Because I’m your father! When I tell you to kneel, you obey, or I’ll break your legs!” Richard threatened menacingly.
“Is that so?” A figure appeared, dressed in a pristine white shirt that clung perfectly to his well-built form. He exuded a natural aura of authority, making it clear he wasn’t to be trifled with.
“I dare anyone here to touch her.”

Chapter 2

Lord William recognized the figure standing before him immediately; it was the same person who had fiercely opposed him just days earlier. His face paled, and he instinctively shrank back, fear washing over him.
Richard Fairweather snapped, “Who do you think you are to boss me around?”
“Just know that I am Lord Tristan Steele,” came the cool, deep voice that commanded attention.
As soon as he’d pinpointed her location, seeing this confrontation was indeed frustrating.
The fury on Lord William's face morphed into something more obsequious. “Lord Tristan, surely there’s a misunderstanding. I have no issues with the House of Summers…”
Richard and Eleanor Fairweather exchanged incredulous glances, watching as the once menacing Lord William now huddled like a frightened mouse in the corner.
Dare they speak? They didn’t even get a chance as William's companions ushered them out.
Lord Tristan Steele wasted no time. “This matter ends here; you are not to pursue it any further.”
What concern did the heir of Steele Enterprises, a shadowy titan of industry, have for these trifling matters?
“Lord Tristan…”
“Isabella Fairweather is my woman. Do you understand that?”
“I understand, I understand! I’ll keep my distance, I promise!” Lord William quickly assured, sweat beading on his brow.
“Watch your tongue,” Tristan stated flatly.
Isabella Fairweather recognized the man instantly. There was something powerful about him; he had swooped in to rescue her at her most desperate moments.
“If you wish to thank me, seek me out at this address,” Lord Tristan said, handing Isabella a private business card before turning on his heel and departing without a backward glance.
His presence vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving those present momentarily dazed. Yet, the relief radiating from Lord William looked utterly genuine.
Richard and Eleanor Fairweather returned to the hospital room with their brows furrowed in confusion.
Before they could inquire about the man, Lord William's pale visage turned serious. “You should leave. Forget this ever happened.”
But Richard, wary of falling into Lord William's wrath later on, rubbed his hands together nervously, his expression creeping into a smile as he said, “Lord William, your generosity is commendable! However, Isabella’s actions deserve consequences. If you prefer not to deal with it here, I can take her straight to your estate. Whatever you wish to do, our family won’t protest.”
At that, Lord William’s expression shifted drastically. He wouldn’t dare touch Isabella Fairweather, recognizing that would be tantamount to suicide.
“Oh come on! Why can’t you understand? When I say it’s settled, it’s settled.”
Having discovered Lord Tristan Steele’s connection to Isabella, he felt he’d found himself a lifeline. “Richard, let me put it this way: your daughter has caught the eye of someone significant. Good days are ahead—who knows? I might be coming to you for support one day!”
Caught by surprise, Richard shot a bewildered look. “That man? Just now?”
Lord William nodded in a way that suggested he wouldn't elaborate further.
Isabella Fairweather regarded the situation with a mix of muted curiosity and fear. How could anyone like that—someone so influential and powerful—take an interest in her? She scoffed internally; surely, he must have meant her sister, Eleanor, who was far more vivacious.
Even Eleanor thought along similar lines, albeit she had been too startled to catch a proper look at that imposing figure earlier.
Meanwhile, Isabella remained quiet, her eyes tracing the card Lord Tristan had given her.
Why had he chosen to come to her aid?
It was all hastily bound up in that single night they shared…
Did that really mean something after all?

Chapter 3

The phone rang sharply, breaking the silence in Isabella Fairweather's small apartment. Her agent, Mandy the Innkeeper, was calling.
As Isabella picked up, a wave of frustration crashed through the line. “Isabella Fairweather, where on earth have you been these past few days? I've called you a dozen times, and your phone's been off. Forget it—get ready! At six tonight, I’m taking you to Director Charles's birthday party.”
Director Charles’s birthday bash?
Isabella hesitated for a moment. Wasn't Mandy always saying how boring she was and how she’d never want to take her to events like this? Why was she suddenly so eager?
“Are you sure you want me to come? I don’t even know Director Charles.”
“Of course, you’re going! The whole point of this is for you to meet him. Don’t make me regret giving you this chance—just get yourself ready!”
Meeting a big-name director was undeniably an incredible opportunity, but Isabella panicked. She didn’t even possess a respectable evening dress suitable for such a fancy affair. After pondering, she concluded that renting a dress might be her only option.
At six sharp, Isabella arrived at the address Mandy had sent. As soon as Mandy spotted her, her expression soured. “Isabella Fairweather! What are you wearing? You look like you belong in a diner, not a party! How am I supposed to introduce you to Director Charles? You want me to have a heart attack?”
Isabella frowned, sensing something was off but unsure how to voice it. “I'm sorry, but this is the best dress I could rent. If it doesn't work, I can just go home.”
Mandy pinched her eyebrows together, clearly irritated. “Enough! Get in there already. We’re running out of time.”
As they stepped inside, the chaos of the party enveloped them, but soon they got separated in the crowd. And then, to Isabella's horror, she spotted the last people she wanted to see: the condescending couple from her past.
Eleanor Fairweather, decked out in a stunning Chanel gown, sauntered over, arms linked with Sir Quentin, the guy who she had once dated before Eleanor snatched him away. With a smug smile, she remarked, “Well, well, Isabella, what’s that outfit? I’ve seen waitstaff look more put together. Lord William should’ve treated you better since you were with him— I mean, guess what! My brother splurged thirty grand on my dress.”
Isabella's heart sank at their taunts. She prepared to turn away when she tripped, colliding directly into Sir Quentin.
With disgust plastered across his face, he recoiled from her, his voice dripping with contempt. “Isabella Fairweather, you really should know better than to spread your clumsiness around!”

Chapter 4

Sir Quentin and Eleanor Fairweather were a well-known couple in the realm of performance, enjoying a noticeable spotlight in the media. Sir Quentin, a rising business mogul, and Eleanor, a popular influencer, drew a lot of attention from the public concerning their personal lives.
So, when Sir Quentin's voice suddenly rose above the crowd, it ignited a flurry of whispers and gossip among onlookers.
“Did you catch that? The woman being scolded by Sir Quentin looks a lot like Isabella Fairweather. How cringeworthy—flirting with her sister's fiancé in public like that!”
“What’s the big deal? I heard from a friend that Isabella pulls this kind of stunt on set all the time, even hitting on the cameramen to get more screen time. She probably thought she could leverage Sir Quentin’s status to climb up, but it seems he’s not interested.”
These harsh remarks echoed unkindly in Isabella Fairweather's ears.
She had no idea when these rumors began to circulate, but she knew without a doubt that her sister Eleanor was behind it all!
Eleanor wouldn’t miss an opportunity to stir the pot, especially one that would draw attention to herself.
With a wounded expression, she confronted everyone, exclaiming, “Sister, what did I ever do to deserve this from you? Sir Quentin is my fiancé, as you know. He is going to be your brother-in-law. Isn’t it shameful for you to flirt with him like this? It’s practically incest!”
Incest?
Isabella felt the weight of those words, an absurd accusation to hurl at her.
Standing tall, she scoffed, “Your skills in retaliation are impressive, Eleanor, but I assure you, I would never stoop so low as to flirt with a pathetic loser like him. Get off your high horse.”
In that moment, the façade shattered—her lingering feelings were gone.
“How dare you speak such dehumanizing words? It’s rude, and you need to apologize to Sir Quentin. He’ll forgive you if you can just show him a little courtesy,” Eleanor said with feigned concern, stepping in front of Isabella.
The corners of Eleanor’s mouth turned up, but her expression was cold as she replied, “Eleanor Fairweather? Let me be clear—I’m not your sister, and you're not my sister. I’ve no interest in pretending to have a heartfelt sibling bond with you. So step aside; don’t play the victim here!”
With a quick movement, she brushed Eleanor aside, causing her to stumble back. “Ah! My dress!” she squealed, noticing a large tear in the luxurious Chanel gown—a piece worth over thirty thousand dollars.
Sir Quentin, upon witnessing the damage, declared, “Isabella Fairweather, how cruel can you be? Since you can’t afford nice clothes, you take it out on Eleanor’s dress? Enough talk—just pay up for that dress, thirty-eight grand.”
Isabella was sure she hadn’t even touched Eleanor, let alone ruined her dress.
The two women were obviously collaborating to set her up!
“I didn’t damage that dress, and I won’t pay you a dime,” Isabella stated firmly.
Sir Quentin sneered, “I saw it all, and you’re lying. Today, you have two options: pay Eleanor for her dress or kneel and apologize to her. If you do, I'll let it go.”
Isabella felt humiliation wash over her; they were intent on crushing her dignity. There was no way she would kneel, and thirty-eight grand wasn’t in her budget.
What was she going to do?
Just as the crowd waited to see Isabella's downfall, a rich, resonant voice rang out from behind, “I’ll cover the cost of the dress.”

Chapter 5

At the mention of the name, all eyes turned towards the source of the commotion.
A man dressed in an elegant black suit with subtle patterns strode into view, his tall, lean figure exuding confidence with every step.
His sharp eyebrows and striking eyes caught the attention of Isabella Fairweather, while his high nose and alluring thin lips added a hint of authority to his aura. His deep, dark eyes locked onto hers.
Isabella stared, taken aback. “What are you doing here?”
Did he come looking for her since she hadn’t sought him out?
“I came to find you,” was his brief reply.
Sir Quentin, having never seen this man before, scoffed with disdain, “That’s quite the claim. Do you have any idea how much this dress costs? You might say it’s ruined, but can you really afford to fix it?”
Without missing a beat, Lord Tristan Steele produced a check and tossed it carelessly in Sir Quentin's direction. “One million—will that cover it?”
One million?
That was nearly three times the value of that Chanel dress. Was he out of his mind?
Eleanor Fairweather watched in awe at the handsome stranger's generosity, her green-eyed envy boiling beneath the surface. How was Isabella so lucky to know such wealthy, attractive men?
Sir Quentin was quick to catch the check, and when he confirmed the amount, he slyly remarked, “Well, Isabella Fairweather, who would have thought your 'damaged goods' were worth so much? This time, I’ll let you off easy. Eleanor, let’s go find Director Charles and discuss his new film.”
Isabella rushed to protest, “No, wait! That dress isn’t my fault! You need to get that money back!”
She couldn’t bear to owe this man such a huge debt; it would linger over her like a dark cloud.
Lord Tristan nodded slowly, “I understand.”
Her heart fluttered slightly at his implicit trust—he believed her without asking a single question. It was a feeling she hadn't experienced in so long, and oddly enough, it warmed her heart.
Meanwhile, Sir Quentin strutted away, confidently wrapping an arm around Eleanor Fairweather, only to be abruptly halted by four looming bodyguards emerging from the shadows.
“Who are you? Get out of my way!” he barked angrily at them.
The bodyguards stood with cold expressions, waiting for their orders.
Lord Tristan Steele, cold and authoritative, declared, “You can leave, but the dress stays.”
Gasps erupted from the surrounding crowd.
Keeping the dress meant leaving Eleanor Fairweather exposed, didn’t it?
But on second thought, it actually made sense. By handing over a million as compensation, it essentially meant buying the dress. Since it no longer belonged to Eleanor, logically, she had to remove it and return it.
It would be quite a spectacle to see a rising star in the industry forced to strip down—some in the crowd eagerly pulled out their phones to capture the moment.
Once thought to be just a naïve man with too much money, Lord Tristan revealed himself as cunning.
Sir Quentin, on the other hand, was the quintessential example of someone biting off more than he could chew.
Eager to witness what would unfold, the crowd leaned in.
Eleanor instinctively hid behind Sir Quentin and pleaded, “Quentin, you have to say something!”
If she were forced to remove that dress today, her career in the entertainment industry would be over.
Sir Quentin hadn’t anticipated this twist. Yet, now that he had the money, could he really give it back?
In a bid to preserve his pride, he pointed a finger at the unassuming Isabella Fairweather. “You shameless harlot! You’ve teamed up with him to set me up!”
Immediately, Lord Tristan stepped in front of Isabella, his gaze icy and unyielding. “Enough of this chatter. You have one minute to decide—either you take off the dress and leave, or you kneel and apologize to Miss Fairweather.”

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