"How do you really feel about her?" Carlos asked, his voice steady but heavy with anticipation. "I want your honest thoughts. Do not soften your words for my sake—I can endure the truth."
Isabella remained silent for a moment, her gaze fixed on the steam rising from her cup.
"In truth… I do not hate her," she began softly. "The venom in my words after the attack… it was born in the moment."
She paused.
"If she had not come to our estate seeking your protection, you wouldn't have been wounded. I blamed her for the blood on your sleeve."
Her voice softened further.
"But later, I understood. If you hadn't chosen to protect her, she would have died. Her sons would be orphans."
She looked up at him.
"You taught me that if we have the power to help someone, we must extend a hand."
Carlos raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised.
He had expected resentment—perhaps even anger, or tears. Maybe even a complaint about her late mother.
Instead, he found something far more complex.
