Page 65 of Iridescent
I drag a hand over my face and stare through the windshield. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to be there for you. The way you’ve been there for me since Papá died.”
I swallow hard and stare out at the dark road ahead. We are close to the city now. A few more turns and we will be near my neighborhood.
Beside me, Isabel draws in a breath, like she is bracing herself.
“Xavi… don’t be mad.” Her voice drops. “I just wanted to thank you. For everything you did for me.”
My brows knit as I turn to look at her properly. “There’s nothing to thank me for. Eduardo was… He was a good man. He deserved to be honored.”
“I mean it. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you last week. When I called, I was a mess, and you dropped everything to be there for me. And then yesterday, after all these years, you did it again. I’ll never forget that.”
My throat tightens at the memory. The phone call. Her broken voice. He’s gone.
I flew to Madrid that same day. By the time I landed, evening had turned to night. Dozens of messages lit up my phone, but I ignored every one that was not from my assistant coordinating a car. I went straight from the airport to the funeral home.
And there she was. Isabel, in black, eyes red and hollow. A few feet away, Eduardo Ortega lay in a coffin. My heart sank.
It was midnight by the time I made it back to Nice. I told Yara it was work. Work has been my excuse for everything lately.
I blink hard, forcing myself back to the present. “He was like a father to me. More than my own ever was.”
She wipes at the corner of her eye. “He loved you, you know. Always did. I think… I think you were the son he never had.”
A lump rises in my throat, and I look away, fixing on anything else instead of the grief on her face. Eduardo had been my mentor, my refuge. The man who taught me how to sail. Who showed up to my university graduation when my own parents could not be bothered. Who gave me somewhere to breathe after I left my family and before I was ready to face the world again.
“I only did what needed doing,” I say, too gruff to hide what is trying to break loose.
I handled the funeral. Gave the eulogy. Helped lay Eduardo to rest. I did all of it on autopilot, driven by duty and love for the man who had saved me more times than he ever knew.
And I did it without telling Yara the truth.
Yesterday, after the appointment that knocked the ground out from under me, I meant to go home to my wife. I even bought gifts. But the guilt stopped me. It has been for weeks.
That was where I saw Isabel again for the second time since Madrid. She had just arrived, though when I asked about her plans, she never said she was coming. If I had not found her when I did, she might have done something irreversible.
When I got home, Yara was still sitting in the dining room in the dress she had chosen for the surprise dinner, surrounded by cold food, dead candles, and flowers already starting to wilt. She looked sick with worry, and still shetried to smile when she saw me.
I tried calling.
I was about to call hospitals.
I lied to her. Automatically. And she stood there listening with hurt in her eyes and grace I had not earned.
The guilt surges back hard enough to hollow me out. I left my wife in the dark to comfort another woman. I lied to her. Hurt her because of it. Whatever my intentions were, Yara has every right to hate me for the way I handled it.
I still don’t know how my mother learned Isabel Ortega would be in Nice for a few months after her father’s funeral, or how she arranged to invite her to our annual family dinner without saying a word to me. But now, at least, I know this much.
It was never an accident.
“…Xavier?”
My head jerks up. The conference room is nearly empty, with only Adrian lingering by the door, a stack of papers tucked under his arm. The rest of the team have already filed out, either to carry out my orders or to escape the tension I radiated through the entire meeting. I had not even noticed.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to ground myself. “Yeah?”
Adrian’s expression is lined with concern. He has known me for years and seen me under pressure more times than I can count, but probably never like this. “We’re set for now. I’ll have updates for you first thing in the morning.” He pauses, then adds carefully, “Do you need anything before I go? You should probably get that looked at.” He gestures vaguely toward my face.
