Chapter 190

Izzy's hands trembled as she slipped the last sheet back into the folder and closed it. The weight of the folder settled in her lap, but a heavier weight rested deeper, lodged in her chest. She sat for what felt like hours, unmoving, staring at the now-quiet study. The lamp cast a soft glow over the desk, the floor, and her bare feet, but none of it registered.

She didn't remember standing or leaving the room. Only that, at some point, she was back in the bedroom, the folder still clutched in her arms as if it might vanish if she let go. She stared at Liam, sound asleep, his breathing steady, the blanket pulled halfway over his chest. Peaceful. Unaware.

She didn't say a word. Instead, she took a seat in the armchair near the bed and stared at him, the folder resting against her knees. She didn't want to assume the worst, didn't want to believe Liam could hide something like this. But what she'd read changed everything.

Her eyes dropped to the file again. Inside were reports—details not just about her grandfather's death, but also her parents'. The crash, always labeled an accident, the one she'd learned to grieve without question. Only now… it didn't look like an accident at all.

In the past, she'd asked Lawyer Alcaraz to investigate her parents' deaths further, but the investigation yielded nothing. She'd had suspicions, but they were useless against the facts. It was ruled a car accident just outside Florence. End of story. But Liam's files said otherwise. They included private investigator reports that pointed to possible tampering with the car's brake system.

Even her grandfather's death had been accepted as a sudden cardiac arrest. There had never been any indication it could be something more—until now. But why was Liam hiding this information from her? What else was he hiding? It made her wonder… and think the worst.

Izzy woke with a dull throb behind her eyes. It took a moment to register where she was. Her fingers brushed against the cool sheets. She frowned. She didn't remember getting into bed. She sat up slowly, pushing the covers off her legs. She'd fallen asleep in the armchair—she was sure of it. But now she was in bed.

Her eyes swept the room. The folder—Liam's folder—was no longer in her lap. It sat neatly on the bedside table, closed and undisturbed. Liam, however, was nowhere in sight. She threw on a robe, tied it quickly, and grabbed her phone. Without thinking, she dialed his number and rushed out of the bedroom.

The line rang once, then twice. She was halfway down the hall when she heard the familiar ringtone faintly—from the kitchen. She let out a breath, ended the call, and turned toward the sound. She didn't know why, but she honestly thought he'd left when he saw her holding the folder. What was she thinking? Liam isn't that childish!

She found Liam standing by the counter, pouring coffee. Plates of breakfast—toast, eggs, roasted tomatoes, and hangover soup—were already on the table. He turned as she entered. "You're up. Coffee or tea?"

Izzy paused. She hadn't expected that. She thought he'd be anxious, that he'd bring it up first. But instead, he was asking about drinks like it was just another day. She stepped in slowly. "You moved me?"

"You looked uncomfortable," Liam replied, setting her cup down. "Didn't want you waking up with a sore neck." Izzy's eyes landed briefly on the coffee, then drifted back to him. "You saw the folder." "I did." "And then made breakfast?" "You needed sleep. I figured food would help."

She didn't respond right away. The casual rhythm of it—the normalcy—only made her more uneasy. "Eat," he said, casually taking a bite of toast.

Izzy stood still a moment before pulling out a chair and sitting across from him. She picked up her spoon and took a bite of the warm tomatoes. Her stomach welcomed it; she realized how hungry she was. He was right. She needed it.

She didn't speak. Neither did he. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the clink of utensils and the hum of the refrigerator. She reached for the toast, chewing slowly, her eyes focused on her plate instead of him.

"Thanks for the soup," Liam said, wiping his mouth. The words pulled her back to the night before. The moment she found him slumped against Mondo. How he'd barely made it to bed. The weight of his body. His silence. And the kiss in front of everyone—his public declaration.

Izzy placed her spoon down gently. "Was it because of your father?" Liam didn't answer right away. His hand stilled over his coffee cup. He looked at her—he stared. And she felt it, felt him searching her face like he already knew her thoughts.

Izzy didn't look away, but her hands curled under the table. The air felt heavier, as if something was finally being acknowledged, but neither of them wanted to be the first to say it. But what was she supposed to say? She hated Liam's father and his power over Liam.

"It was," he answered after what felt like forever. "We had some… very needed conversation." "Was it still because he didn't know you married me?" she asked. "Partly." "You should have just informed him." She wondered if he'd done it to punish his father, or because he thought the marriage wouldn't last, or to protect her from his father. Who needed enemies with a father like Olivier Horvath?

"He doesn't deserve it," Liam answered, looking at his coffee but not reaching for it. Seeing this, Izzy slowly extended her hand across the table and placed it over his. Her fingers rested lightly against his knuckles. He turned his gaze toward her.

"I would appreciate it," she said, "if you'd let me know what you're sheltering me from. Or who." Liam didn't speak. His hand didn't move. But his eyes stayed on hers.

For the first time since she'd entered the kitchen, the silence changed. It wasn't uncertain. It wasn't casual. It was heavy. He looked at their hands. Then back at her.

"You're not angry," Liam muttered. "Angry?" She blinked, as if the word had just reached her. Maybe she should have been. Betrayal was the logical response. Fury, even. But the truth was—she'd felt too much to feel just one thing. Too much shock. Too much weight. Anger would have been simple.

She had once believed surface goodness reflected inner goodness. That a kind smile or gentle hand reflected a kind soul. That mistake had cost her. Never again. She wasn't the same girl who took things at face value. This time, she'd tear through every lie, every carefully crafted truth, until she uncovered what was real. No more blind trust. No more assumptions.

She was no longer the girl who assumed in silence—she was the woman who asked, challenged, and demanded answers. She smiled. "Just… confused," she added. "And I needed answers."