Seeing Isabella remain silent only emboldened Vanessa. She stood and stepped closer, her voice growing more venomous. “I hear your mother is ill,” she sneered. “Probably because she spent her life working like a servant until her health is ruined. How pitiful. Twenty years bowing and scraping, and in the end, she’s just an old maid no one needs.”
Something shattered inside Isabella. She could endure any insult aimed at herself, but not at her mother. Rosa Reyes was the woman who had sacrificed her entire life to raise her, who had worked herself to exhaustion to repay the debt her father left behind, who had swallowed endless humiliations in silence so her daughter could study and escape poverty.
And Vanessa dared to insult her like this.
Without another thought, Isabella’s hand flew up and struck Vanessa’s perfect face with a sharp slap. The sound cracked through the room like thunder. Vanessa staggered back, clutching her cheek, her eyes wide with shock and horror.
“You—you dared to hit me!” she screamed shrilly. “Do you know who I am?”
Isabella stood straight, her chest heaving with rage, her voice cold as ice. “I don’t care who you are, but if you ever speak about my mother like that again, a slap will be the lightest thing you receive.”
Vanessa screamed for Max, and within seconds he appeared at the doorway with Tony. Max’s gray eyes swept over the scene, from Vanessa clutching her cheek and sobbing to Isabella standing there with her wine-soaked shirt and defiant gaze.
“She hit me!” Vanessa cried, running to Max. “Maxwell! She hit me! Throw her out! Make her pay!”
Max was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Isabella. She stood there without lowering her head, without apologizing, without begging. She met his gaze as if daring him to do whatever he wished.
“Tony,” he said evenly. “Take Miss Thornton to rest.”
Vanessa stared in disbelief. “What? You’re not punishing her? She hit me!”
“Maxwell—”
Max didn’t look at Vanessa, his eyes still locked on Isabella. “Tony,” he repeated more coldly. “Do as I say.”
Tony nodded and gently but firmly led Vanessa out, ignoring her shrill protests. When the room was left with only the two of them, Max walked closer to Isabella.
“Follow me,” he said shortly and headed down the corridor.
Isabella hesitated for a second, then followed. He led her into his study and closed the door. She stood there, bracing herself for his fury. Instead, Max looked at her with a strange expression, then opened a drawer and took out a white shirt still in its packaging and handed it to her.
“Change your shirt,” he said simply. “Wine left on the skin too long will cause irritation.”
Isabella stared at the shirt, then at him, not understanding. “Aren’t you going to punish me?” she asked.
Max turned his back and looked out the window. “Next time don’t leave handprints on her face,” he said, his voice carrying a trace of amusement. “It’s hard to explain to the Thornton family.”
Isabella stood there, stunned, staring at his broad back. And for the first time since she arrived, she felt something warm spread through her chest.
That night, Isabella lay on the narrow bed in the servants’ quarters but couldn’t fall asleep. Her mind kept spinning with the day’s events, from the slap she’d delivered to Vanessa’s face to Max’s unexpected reaction. She didn’t understand him—didn’t understand why he hadn’t punished her, didn’t understand the strange look in his eyes when he’d handed her the shirt.
When the clock struck two in the morning, Isabella gave up trying to sleep. She slipped on a thin cardigan and quietly left her room. The mansion lay silent in the darkness, with only a few dim corridor lights glowing.
She didn’t know where she was going. Her feet simply carried her through the empty hallways. When she realized she was standing before the door leading down to the wine cellar, she hesitated, then decided to go down.
The spiral stone staircase led her into a vast space lined with endless rows of oak shelves. The scent of old wood and rich wine enveloped her. Isabella walked slowly, her fingers brushing dusty bottles, each one holding a story, a memory of the Castellano family.
Then she stopped when she saw a figure sitting at the far end of the cellar. Max was seated alone on an old leather chair, an open bottle of wine on a small table beside him, a glass of dark red wine in his hand. What stunned Isabella wasn’t his presence but the book in his other hand. Even in the dim light, she recognized it as a medical book, the kind she’d known well during her nursing studies.
“Can’t sleep either?”
Max’s voice suddenly broke the silence, making Isabella start. He didn’t look up, still reading, but it was clear he’d known she was there for some time. Isabella stepped closer, with no reason to retreat.
“I could ask you the same,” she replied.
Max finally lifted his head, his gray eyes meeting hers in the shadows. He looked more worn than during the day, the lines around his eyes deeper, his usual coldness replaced by something like sorrow.
“I haven’t slept well for many nights,” he said hoarsely, “since Jonathan passed.”
Isabella remembered Maggie mentioning that name—Max’s brother, the heir who should have led the Castellano Empire. She sat quietly in the chair across from him, saying nothing, waiting.
Max studied her for a long moment, then raised the book. “This was my brother’s,” he said. “Jonathan collected medical books, though he never planned to be a doctor. He said they helped him understand the human body, know where to strike to cause the most pain.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “But the one who truly wanted to use this knowledge to heal was me.”
Isabella looked at him, the pieces falling into place. “You studied medicine,” she said, not a question but a statement.
Max nodded slowly. “Final year of medical school, only a few months from graduation. Then Jonathan was shot dead before my eyes, and I had to return to take his place.”
His voice was steady, as if telling someone else’s story. But Isabella saw the deep pain in his gray eyes. She understood that feeling—the loss of someone beloved and living on with a hollow that can’t be filled.
“I lost my brother too,” she said softly, her voice trembling even after all these years. “His name was Miguel. Sixteen. He died in a motorcycle accident while making deliveries to help our family. I was holding him when he took his last breath.”
Max looked at her, and for the first time his gaze was completely open, without any defenses. “How old were you then?” he asked.
“Eighteen,” Isabella replied. “He died the day before my birthday. I haven’t blown out candles since.”
They sat in silence for a long while, two strangers from entirely different worlds, yet in this moment bound by the same grief. Max poured her a glass of wine and slid it toward her. She took it, sipped gently, tasting ripe grapes and oak on her tongue.
“Jonathan would have liked you,” Max said unexpectedly. “He liked people who weren’t afraid.”
Isabella looked at him over the rim of the glass. “I’m not fearless,” she answered honestly. “I’ve just been afraid too much in my life and don’t have the strength to be afraid anymore.”
Max regarded her with a strange expression, as if she’d touched something deep within him. They sat until the bottle was empty, speaking of those they’d lost, of buried dreams, of scars unseen.
When dawn began to slip through the cellar door, Isabella realized she’d seen a completely different Maxwell Castellano: a man with unhealed wounds hidden behind a cold exterior. And that frightened her more than anything else.
As the light grew stronger, Max suddenly set his glass down and looked straight at Isabella. “The scar on your shoulder?” he said, his voice low but firm. “I saw it the first day you came here. Who did that to you?”
Isabella stiffened. Her hand rose unconsciously to her shoulder, where the long scar lay hidden beneath her clothes. She was used to hiding it, used to pretending it didn’t exist.
But Max’s gray eyes held a strange patience, as if he were willing to sit here all day for an answer.
“That’s old history,” she said quietly, trying to avoid it. “It doesn’t concern anyone.”
Max said nothing, only continued to look at her. His silence weighed heavier than any question. Isabella felt the wall she’d spent three years building begin to crack. Perhaps because they’d shared too much tonight. Perhaps because she was too tired of keeping everything to herself.
“My ex-husband,” she finally said, her voice trembling slightly despite her effort to control it. “His name is Derek Manning. We married when I was twenty-two, divorced two years later.”
Max frowned, the scar on his face twitching. “He hit you,” he said. Not as a question, but as an angry certainty.
Isabella nodded slowly, her eyes dropping to the empty glass. “At first it was only words,” she said evenly, as if telling someone else’s story. “Then slaps, then beatings. This scar is from when he shoved me into the corner of a glass table. I needed twelve stitches.”
Max clenched his fist, his knuckles turning white. “Where is he now?” he asked, his voice cold as ice, fury simmering beneath.
Isabella shook her head. “I don’t know. After the divorce, I ran to Chicago and cut off all contact. For three years I lived like a ghost. No social media. No old friends. No traces. I was afraid he’d find me.”
She looked up at Max, and in her dark brown eyes, he saw not weakness, but resilience forged by suffering. “But I’m not running anymore,” she said, her voice stronger. “I came back to New York because my mother needs me, and I won’t let anyone, including Derek, drive me out of my own life again.”
Max looked at her for a long moment, his gray eyes filled with emotions she couldn’t read. Then he stood and stepped closer. Isabella thought he would speak, but instead, he simply held out his hand, palm up in a silent invitation.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he said gently. “It’s morning and you need rest.”
Isabella looked at his hand, hesitated for a second, then placed hers in it. Max’s hand was warm and strong, his fingers closing around hers with surprising gentleness. He led her up the stairs, through corridors still wrapped in shadow, all the way to her door.
“Sleep,” he said softly. “Don’t worry about anything.”
Isabella nodded and stepped inside. When she turned to thank him, the door was already closed, and Max had vanished down the corridor. She didn’t know that the moment he left her door, Max took out his phone and called Tony.
His voice was cold and lethal as he gave the order. “I need everything on a man named Derek Manning, Isabella Reyes’s ex-husband. I want to know where he is, what he does, how he breathes, and I want it before the sun sets today.”
On the other end, Tony didn’t ask why. After twenty years with the Castellanos, he knew when to stay silent and obey. “Yes sir,” Tony replied. “I’ll handle it immediately.”
Max ended the call and stood in the dark hallway, his gray eyes fixed on Isabella’s door. He didn’t know why her story had enraged him so deeply, why the thought of someone hurting her made him want to crush that person with his own hands. He only knew that Derek Manning, wherever he was, would soon learn he’d touched something he never should have touched.
That afternoon, Isabella asked Maggie for permission to visit her mother for a few hours. She needed to see Rosa, to hear her voice, to feel the sense of peace that only her mother could give. The past days had brought too many upheavals, from Vanessa to the nights in the wine cellar with Max, and she felt herself slowly losing her bearings.
The small Brooklyn apartment was just as she remembered, cramped but warm, with family photos on the walls and the familiar scent of food from the kitchen. Rosa was much better now; her color had returned, though she still coughed from time to time.
“My daughter,” Rosa smiled when she saw Isabella enter. “Come sit with me, tell me how things are at the Castellano house.”
Isabella sat beside her mother on the worn sofa, resting her head on Rosa’s shoulder like she had as a child. She spoke about the work, about the upcoming event, about Maggie and the other staff. She didn’t mention Vanessa, didn’t mention the slap, and certainly didn’t mention the nights in the wine cellar with Max.
But Rosa was her mother; she could see through what wasn’t said. “Is there something you want to tell me?” Rosa asked gently, stroking her daughter’s hair.
Isabella hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s nothing, Mom. I’m just tired.”
Rosa sighed, her gaze growing distant. “I know you’re hiding something from me,” she said. “But that’s alright, you have the right to keep your secrets. It’s just that I think it’s time I tell you one I’ve kept for twenty years.”
Isabella lifted her head in surprise. “What secret?”
Rosa closed her eyes for a moment, gathering courage. When she opened them, Isabella saw tears pooling at the corners.
“It’s about your father,” Rosa said shakily, “and why I’ve worked for the Castellanos for twenty years.”
Isabella froze. Her father, Ricardo Reyes, the man who’d left when she was five, leaving her mother to raise two children in poverty. She barely remembered him beyond a few old photos and nights hearing her mother cry in the kitchen.
“You know your father once worked for the Castellanos?” Rosa asked.
Isabella shook her head, stunned. “I didn’t know. You never told me.”
Rosa nodded slowly. “Your father was the personal driver of Mr. Castellano, Maxwell’s father. He was trusted, valued, but then he began gambling and lost a great deal of money. He borrowed from loan sharks, and when he couldn’t repay them, he did something unforgivable.”
Isabella felt her heart race, a bad feeling rising. “What did he do?” she asked hoarsely.
Rosa swallowed, tears streaming down her face. “Your father stole money from the Castellanos to pay his debts. A very large sum. When it was discovered, he should have been killed. But I knelt and begged Mr. Castellano to spare his life. He agreed on one condition: Your father must disappear forever, and I would work to repay the debt.”
Isabella felt as if all the air had been pulled from her lungs. “Twenty years,” she whispered. “You worked twenty years to repay his debt.”
Rosa nodded, tears flowing freely. “I don’t resent your father,” she said. “I only wanted to protect you and your brother. I didn’t want you to grow up in the shadow of that world. I did everything so you could have a normal life. So you could study. So you could have a future.”
Isabella stood and took a few steps, gripping the window frame to steady herself. All those years she’d believed her mother worked so hard because they were poor, because there was no other choice. She hadn’t known Rosa carried a crushing debt, one her father should have borne.
All her mother’s sacrifices, every night she came home with cracked hands and aching back, were for a man who’d abandoned them without a word.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Isabella turned back, her voice breaking. “Why did you endure this alone for twenty years?”
Rosa rose and embraced her. “Because you’re my child,” she said softly. “I’d do anything to protect you.”
And that was when Isabella completely broke down. She cried, for the first time in many years, like a child in her mother’s arms. She cried for Rosa’s silent twenty years of sacrifice, for her lost brother, for her own shattered marriage, and for the five-year-old girl who once stood by the window waiting for a father who would never return.
Rosa held her tightly, stroking her hair as before. “Everything will be alright,” she whispered. “We still have each other. That’s what matters most.”
Isabella returned to the Castellano estate that evening with eyes still swollen and red. She’d cried all afternoon in her mother’s arms, and now she felt hollow, like a vessel drained of water. She meant to slip quietly to her room so no one would see her like this.
But as soon as she stepped through the front door, a young voice startled her. “Oh, you must be Isabella. Right?”
Isabella turned and saw a young woman standing at the foot of the staircase. She looked about twenty, with dark brown hair cut to her shoulders, and gray eyes exactly like Max’s, though far warmer. She wore an oversized hoodie and faded jeans, looking like an ordinary college student rather than the sister of a mafia boss.
“I’m Sophia,” the girl said, stepping closer with a bright smile. “Maxwell’s sister. He talks about you a lot.”
Isabella was surprised. “He talks about me?”
Sophia giggled. “Yes, in his way. He doesn’t say much, but I know how to read between the lines. He said there’s someone new working here, stubborn and not afraid of anyone. I knew right away he meant someone special.”
Isabella didn’t know how to react. She’d never met anyone in the Castellano family so friendly. Sophia was completely different from Max’s coldness and the distance of the others in the house.
“Are you okay?” Sophia asked, suddenly more serious. “Your eyes are very red.”
Isabella meant to lie but only shook her head. “Today was a bit hard,” she admitted.
Sophia nodded with understanding and suddenly took Isabella’s hand. “Come with me,” she said, pulling her toward the kitchen. “There’s nothing a cup of hot chocolate can’t help.”
They sat in the kitchen for nearly an hour, drinking hot chocolate and talking about everything. Sophia spoke about studying law, about her dream of becoming a lawyer to protect children’s rights, and about how much she hated the shadow of the Castellano family yet still loved her brother unconditionally. Isabella listened and gradually felt lighter.
There was something about Sophia that made her feel safe, as if she’d found a true friend in this unfamiliar world.
“Max has changed a lot since you came,” Sophia said suddenly. “I come home often, and I’ve never seen him like this. He’s gentler, less cold. I don’t know what you did, but thank you.”
Isabella was about to protest when Maggie entered the kitchen. She paused at the sight of them, and a rare smile crossed her stern face.
“Sophia is right,” Maggie said, her voice softer than usual. “I’ve been here twenty years, since Max was a boy. I watched him become the cold man he is after Jonathan’s death, but in recent days, I’ve seen something change in him. I believe that change is connected to you, Isabella.”
Isabella felt her heart beat faster. She didn’t know what to say, or how to feel.
Sophia squeezed her hand and smiled. “You’ll stay, won’t you? After the wine launch event, you’ll stay?”
Isabella thought of her mother, of the twenty-year debt, of the painful past she’d just uncovered. She thought of Derek and the fear that had followed her for three years. And she thought of Max, of gray eyes cold on the surface yet hiding a pain like her own.