SANTILLIAN TRILOGY: RAPTURE

Isaac Santillian’s POV

I had never understood why people were so afraid of being alone.

Being alone was simple.

No expectations. No explanations. No arguments about where you were, who you were with, or why you hadn’t answered a message in twenty minutes.

No promises that could eventually become obligations.

No woman asking where a relationship was going when you were perfectly comfortable not knowing.

I preferred things that way.

Simple.

Controlled.

Predictable.

At least, that was what I told myself.

My name is Isaac Santillian.

Middle son.

Middle triplet.

And, according to my family, the one most likely to get himself into trouble without actually looking like he was doing anything wrong.

Isaiah was the oldest.

Iris was the youngest.

And I was exactly where I had always been—between them.

Literally and otherwise.

Being a middle child among triplets came with its own set of problems.

Isaiah had the authority of being born first by a matter of minutes.

Iris had the privilege of being the youngest, which she used shamelessly whenever she wanted something from our parents.

I had neither.

So I learned early how to make my own advantages.

Charm helped.

Confidence helped more.

And knowing exactly when to shut up?

That helped the most.

“Isaac.”

I looked up from my laptop.

Isaiah stood across the kitchen island, holding a cup of coffee and wearing the expression of a man who had already decided I was guilty before hearing the evidence.

“What?”

“You’re smiling.”

I glanced at him.

“So?”

“You only smile like that when you’re either about to make a terrible decision or you’ve already made one.”

I leaned back against the chair.

“That’s insulting.”

“It’s accurate.”

Iris walked into the kitchen behind him, still tying her hair.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing.”

Isaiah pointed at me.

“Yet.”

I looked between them.

“You two have an unhealthy amount of interest in my life.”

Iris grabbed a piece of toast from the plate.

“That’s because your life is usually entertaining.”

“I’m a lawyer. My life is fascinating.”

She laughed.

“You spent twenty minutes last night arguing with the housekeeper because she threw away your protein bar.”

“She threw away an imported protein bar.”

“It was expired.”

“That wasn’t the point.”

Isaiah shook his head.

“See?”

I took my coffee.

“This family has no respect for property.”

Iris sat beside me.

“You have court today?”

“Two hearings.”

“Criminal?”

“First one.”

“And the second?”

“Corporate.”

She made a face.

“Sounds tiring.”

“It isn’t.”

“You say that about everything.”

“Because most things become interesting when you know what you’re looking for.”

Isaiah gave me a look.

“That’s the lawyer talking.”

He smirked.

There were very few people who could talk to me that way.

Isaiah was one of them.

Iris was another.

They had earned it.

Growing up with them meant there was never much privacy, but there was always someone around when things went wrong.

We fought.

We competed.

We annoyed each other.

We protected each other.

That last part was something our mother had made sure of.

She had always known what being a Santillian meant.

Money brought attention.

The family name opened doors.

It also made certain people wonder what was behind them.

When we were younger, our mother had insisted that Isaiah and I undergo training.

Not because she wanted us to become fighters.

Because she wanted us to survive.

Situational awareness.

Defensive techniques.

Recognizing surveillance.

Knowing the safest exits in unfamiliar places.

Understanding what to do when someone followed you.

How to keep your head clear when adrenaline took over.

How to protect someone without making the situation worse.

At the time, I thought most of it was excessive.

Isaiah thought so too.

Our mother didn’t care.

She made us train anyway.

And eventually, we understood why.

We learned to notice things other people ignored.

A car parked too long.

A stranger appearing in the same places.

A change in someone’s behavior.

A door that should have been locked.

Small details.

Things that didn’t seem important until they were.

I never imagined those lessons would become useful.

Not yet.

For the moment, they were simply part of me.

The same way the Santillian name was.

The same way my profession was.

I didn’t take my work lightly.

At home, I could joke.

I could annoy Isaiah.

I could steal Iris’s food and deny it while she was still watching me chew.

At work, none of that existed.

The moment I stepped into a courtroom, I became someone else.

Not because I was pretending.

Because there was a difference between being Isaac Santillian and being a Santillian lawyer.

One was my identity.

The other was my responsibility.

I had built my reputation carefully.

I didn’t accept every case.

I didn’t chase every opportunity.

And I certainly didn’t represent people simply because they could afford me.

If I took a case, I studied everything.

Every document.

Every witness.

Every inconsistency.

Every possible motive.

People lied.

Documents could be manipulated.

Money could disappear.

Witnesses could change their stories.

But patterns were harder to hide.

That was what I trusted.

Evidence.

Facts.

Results.

Not feelings.

Especially not feelings.

“Isaac.”

I looked at Iris.

“What?”

She was staring at me.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Thinking.”

“I think for a living.”

“You think too much.”

Isaiah laughed.

“He does.”

I stood.

“I have court.”

Iris pointed at my coffee.

“You forgot that.”

I looked down.

She was right.

I took it from the counter.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I walked toward the door.

“Isaac.”

I stopped.

Isaiah’s voice had changed.

I turned.

He was no longer smiling.

“Be careful.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“I always am.”

“I know.”

That was all he said.

I left.

The courtroom was where I made sense.

Everything had rules.

Every accusation required support.

Every argument required structure.

Every decision had consequences.

I liked that.

There was no guessing.

Or at least, there shouldn’t have been.

By the time the hearing ended, I had dismantled the opposing counsel’s argument piece by piece.

My client had been accused of deliberately concealing financial transactions.

The prosecution had presented a clean-looking timeline.

Clean was usually suspicious.

I had spent three nights going through bank records and corporate correspondence.

There it was.

One transaction had been entered forty-eight hours after the document supposedly authorizing it had been signed.

A small discrepancy.

Easy to miss.

Impossible to explain.

The judge noticed it.

The opposing counsel noticed it.

My client definitely noticed it.

I closed my folder.

“That’s all, Your Honor.”

Outside the courtroom, my associate caught up with me.

“You knew.”

“I suspected.”

“How?”

I looked at him.

“Because the numbers were too perfect.”

He frowned.

I continued walking.

“People aren’t perfect. Records aren’t either.”

He nodded slowly.

“You make it look easy.”

“It isn’t.”

I stopped beside the elevator.

“That’s why they pay me.”

The doors opened.

I stepped inside.

My phone vibrated.

A message.

Another date.

Another woman.

Another invitation to dinner.

I glanced at it.

Smiled.

And ignored it.

Not because I wasn’t interested.

I was.

I simply wasn’t interested enough to make it complicated.

That was how I preferred women.

Beautiful.

Interesting.

Independent.

And, most importantly, temporary.

I didn’t lie to them.

I didn’t promise anything.

I didn’t tell them I was looking for forever when I wasn’t.

They knew what they were getting.

So did I.

There was nothing wrong with that.

At least, that’s what I believed.

Love wasn’t necessary.

Commitment wasn’t necessary.

Marriage certainly wasn’t necessary.

People made those things sound important because they were afraid of being alone.

I wasn’t.

I had Isaiah.

I had Iris.

I had my family.

I had my career.

I had everything I needed.

Why would I complicate it?

The elevator doors opened.

I stepped out.

And then I saw her.

She was standing near the reception area.

Not looking at me.

Not trying to get my attention.

Not doing what most women did when they realized who I was.

She talking to someone.

Dark hair.

Professional clothes.

Calm expression.

Focused.

I slowed.

Just slightly.

My associate nearly walked into me.

“Sir?”

“Nothing.”

I kept walking.

Then she looked up.

Our eyes met.

It lasted perhaps two seconds.

Maybe three.

She didn’t smile.

Didn’t stare.

Didn’t look impressed.

She simply looked at me, acknowledged my existence, and returned to talking with someone.

Interesting.

I stopped.

My associate followed my gaze.

“Do you know her?”

“No.”

“Want me to find out?”

I looked at him.

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow.

I walked away.

But for the first time that day, my mind wasn’t on a case.

It wasn’t on a contract.

It wasn’t on the next hearing.

It was on a woman whose name I didn’t even know.

That irritated me.

I didn’t like distractions.

Especially unexpected ones.

Later that evening, I returned home to find Isaiah and Iris arguing over the television remote.

“You’re both adults,” I said.

Iris pointed at Isaiah.

“Tell him.”

Isaiah pointed back.

“She’s the one being unreasonable.”

I took the remote from both of them.

They stared at me.

I changed the channel.

“Problem solved.”

Iris narrowed her eyes.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m efficient.”

Isaiah laughed.

I dropped onto the couch.

For a while, everything felt normal.

Familiar.

Safe.

Then my phone vibrated again.

I checked it.

A message from my associate.

The name I’d asked about earlier.

Claire Torres.

I stared at the screen.

Underneath her name was a brief professional profile.

Businesswoman.

Well-known.

Sharp.

Confident.

I read the message twice.

Isaiah noticed.

“Work?”

“Yes.”

I locked the phone.

Iris looked at me suspiciously.

“You’re smiling again.”

I looked at her.

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

Isaiah leaned back.

“Who is she?”

I gave him a flat look.

“How do you know it’s a woman?”

“Because I know you.”

Iris laughed.

I stood up.

“You two are exhausting.”

I walked toward the stairs.

Behind me, Isaiah called out.

“Isaac!”

“What?”

“Try not to fall in love.”

I stopped.

Then I laughed.

Actually laughed.

“That’s not going to happen.”

I kept walking.

I believed every word.

I believed love was something other people needed.

Something sentimental.

Something that made intelligent people behave irrationally.

I believed I was too disciplined to let another person interfere with the life I had built.

I believed I knew exactly what I wanted.