Chapter 1: Plastic Declined
Isabelle stared at the row of dresses in front of her with a thin smile. Her fingers brushed against the soft champagne-colored satin, then moved to the emerald green that reflected the store lights.
"This one would be perfect for formal events, Miss Laurent," the young sales assistant said with a professional smile. "Or maybe the red? The color is very... bold."
Isabelle laughed softly. "The green one. I need something elegant for tomorrow night's dinner."
"Great choice. Would you like me to wrap it?"
"Yes, please."
Isabelle pulled out her wallet, retrieving the black credit card that felt familiar in her hands. This card was a symbol of who she was Isabelle Laurent, daughter of the Laurent family whose name was featured in various business and socialite magazines.
She swiped her card on the EDC machine.
BEEP.
DECLINED.
Isabelle blinked. "Sorry, could you try again?"
Of course, Miss.
BEEP.
DECLINED.
Silence. The sales assistant looked at Isabelle with an increasingly awkward smile. "Maybe... there's an issue with the system, Miss?"
Isabelle felt heat rise to her cheeks. She pulled out her phone, opening her mobile banking app.
ACCESS RESTRICTED.
CONTACT YOUR BANK.
Her heart beat faster. This wasn't a system error. This was... blocked.
"Miss Laurent?" the sales assistant called, her voice full of sympathy that made Isabelle even more embarrassed.
"I... I'll contact my bank first." Isabelle put the dress back on the rack with trembling hands. "Sorry for the trouble."
She left the store quickly, ignoring the stares from the cashier and other customers. Outside, the warm afternoon air felt suffocating.
Isabelle opened her phone, searching for her mother's contact. Before she could press the call button, her phone vibrated.
MOM — INCOMING CALL
She answered immediately. "Mom, I'm at—"
"Bella." Her mother's voice sounded tense, trying to sound normal but failing. "Where are you right now?"
"At the mall, why? What's wrong?"
"Come home now. Your father and I are at home. There's... a guest."
"A guest? Who?"
Silence for a moment. Isabelle could hear her mother's breathing on the other end.
"Just come home first, Bella. You'll find out soon enough."
Click.
Isabelle stared at her phone with a furrowed brow. Something was wrong. Her voice... wasn't like her usual cheerful and warm mother. It sounded like someone trying to hold something back.
She called an online taxi, got into the car with her mind spinning. Maybe it was business? Maybe an important client? But why did her mother sound so... scared?
The ride home felt longer than usual. Isabelle tried calling her mother twice, but no one answered. She sent a message:
Isabelle: Mom, I'll be there in 15 minutes. What's actually going on?
Read.
No reply.
Isabelle bit her lip. The car stopped in front of their house a classic-style mansion with a neat garden and elegant black iron gates. But something was different.
In the driveway, a shiny black car was parked. A Mercedes S-Class. A car too expensive, too new, and too... intimidating to belong to an ordinary guest.
Beside the car stood a man. Black suit, tall posture, arms crossed over his chest. He didn't move, just stood there like a statue guarding something.
Isabelle paid the taxi and walked toward the front door. The driver glanced at her briefly, then opened the door without saying a word.
"Thank you," Isabelle muttered.
The man just nodded.
Isabelle entered the house. The living room was usually warm with soft yellow lights, comfortable sofas, and family photos on the walls. But today, the air felt heavy.
Her mother sat on the sofa, hands clenched in her lap. Her face was pale, her eyes red as if she had just been crying. Her father sat in the chair beside her, posture tense, gaze avoiding Isabelle's eyes.
And in the armchair across from them...
There was a man Isabelle had never seen before.
He sat casually, legs crossed, one hand holding a glass of whiskey that was half empty. His suit was perfectly black, his tie loose but still looking expensive. His hair was dark, slightly messy but still neat. His face...
Isabelle couldn't breathe.
He was handsome in a dangerous way. His jaw was sharp, his eyes dark and sharp as if measuring something. His lips were thin, not smiling, but there was something in his gaze that made Isabelle feel like prey who had just entered a wolf's den.
The man looked at Isabelle from head to toe. Slowly. Carefully. As if inspecting something he was about to buy.
Then he set his glass on the table, looked Isabelle straight in the eyes, and said in a cold, flat voice:
"Finally."
