Never Again Yours (Isadora and Magnus)

Chapter 369 Isadora returned to the house that evening to find the dining table set with a comforting spread: a pot of homemade chicken soup, sautéed shrimp with broccoli, perfectly seared salmon, and salad.

The fragrance filled the air, warm and inviting.

Eleanor emerged from the kitchen, removing her apron and handing it off to the waiting housekeeper. "Con. Dinner's ready," she called.

Mother and daughter sat together in the dining room, sharing the meal in companionable silence. Eleanor ladled a generous portion of soup into a bowl and set it in front of Isadora. Throughout dinner, she would glance over at her daughter with an unreadable expression, as if there was something she wanted to say.

Even someone less perceptive than Isadora would have picked up on it. "Mom, is there something you want to talk about?" Isadora finally asked. Eleanor set down her fork, thinking for a moment about how to begin. "Last night, a friend of mine saw Nanette at the Grand Regent Hotel." Isadora's mind jumped to the excuse she'd given Eleanor the night before-that she was going to Nanette's to avoid the thunderstorm. Apparently, that little white lie hadn't gone unnoticed.

Eleanor's worried eyes met her daughter's. "Isadora, where were you last night?" Isadora pressed her lips together. "I..." Eleanor frowned. "You were with Mr. Fitzgerald, weren't you?" Realizing there was no way to hide it, Isadora nodded sheepishly.

"I knew it. You've been acting strange lately. Why are you getting mixed up with him again?" "Isadora, you promised we'd leave Capitolion together." Isadora answered quietly, "We are leaving." "Then why are you seeing him now? Are you having second thoughts?" Isadora shook her head softly.

Eleanor sighed, her tone growing more earnest. "If you really want to leave this city, you have to be decisive. Cut things off with him cleanly." Isadora tightened her grip on her fork, knuckles turning white.

"But if you don't want to go, and he keeps stringing you along, and you're pregnant..." Eleanor's voice trembled slightly, anger and worry mixing. "The Fitzgeralds haven't said a word, haven't even reached out-what does that make you?" "We Vaughans may not be much, but we're not nobody. We can't let them treat us like this." The more Eleanor spoke, the more upset she became, remembering how she'd once gone to beg Deanna Fitzgerald for understanding, only to be dismissed and thrown out.

Isadora put down her fork, her voice barely above a whisper. "He said he'd marry me." "But that old Fitzgerald matriarch will never allow it. Even if you marry in, who knows what life you'll have?" Isadora bit her lip, looking at her mother. "I trust Victor. He'll protect me." Eleanor fell silent, searching her daughter's face.

Isadora's dark lashes fluttered as she gently placed a hand over her belly.

"I want to believe him one more time," she said softly.

To believe in Victor's promises. To trust the tenderness buried deep in his eyes.

Eleanor's sharp gaze lingered on Isadora. Her voice, unusually gentle, broke the silence. "Are you sure?" The word "sure" hovered on Isadora's lips, but she couldn't quite say it.

Eleanor sighed. "We haven't left yet. Take this month to think it through. If you truly want to be with him, I'm not sold prude. I only want what's best for you. But I want the Fitzgeralds to chere properly and ask for your hand, to do things the right way." With that, Eleanor stood and left the room.

Up in her bedroom, Isadora showered and changed into her pajamas. She curled up on the bed a copy of "The Pregnancy In Handbook" resting on her knees. Half an hour passed, and she hadn't made it past the first page.

Her thoughts kept circling.

Victor had promised to marry her, but with Dorian Fitzgerald's recent passing, she knew they'd have to wait at least three months. She understood what her mothe@meant: Eleanor was worried for her.

Suddenly, her phone rang.

She glanced at the screen and answered.

A man's low, husky voice cthrough, casual yet tinged with fatigue. "I'm outside your house. Will you cout?" Isadora blinked in surprise. "What are you doing here? I told you I was staying in tonight." "Mm." Sitting in the driver's seat, Victor looked up at the pale light shining from an upstairs window. "Are you coming out?" he asked again.

"No," Isadora replied firmly.

She knew Eleanor was still awake. After their conversation, she didn't want to sneak out to see Victor-that would only confirm her mother's worst fears.

Victor's voice cagain, lazy yet strangely boyish. "I'm sick." "Sick? What's wrong?" "Dunno. Fever, maybe." He sounded almost nonchalant, but there was an unmistakable note of complaint. "How high?" "102." She could hear the rasp in his voice, and at that number, she couldn't help scolding him. "If you have a fever, why aren't you at the hospital? Why cto me? I'm not a doctor." Victor's reply was pure childish stubbornness. "Don't want a doctor. Just want to see you."

Isadora was exasperated. How could he be so childish at his age? If hen didn't care for himself, she wasn't about to indulge him. He was sick and still being reckless he deserved it.

She hung up, tossing "The Pregnancy Handbook" onto the nightstand and flopping back onto the bed, eyes squeezed shut. But her mind was restless, and she tossed and turned for ages, unable to sleep. Suddenly, she sat up in frustration.

Idiot! Absolute idiot! She threw off her blanket, not even bothering with slippers, and rushed to the window.

Pulling back the curtain, she peered outside.

A flashy yellow Lamborghini sat brazenly in the driveway, the convertible top thrown back, both seats exposed to the brisk night air. In the driver's seat, Victor lounged with that signature, devil-may-care posture, broad shoulders relaxed, long legs stretched out under his casual clothes. Even from this distance, she could make out the sharp lines of his profile, illuminated by the streetlamp, eyes closed as if he had all the tin the world. Her anger flared anew.

It was late autumn, almost winter. The night air had a real bite to it; the trees lining the street were nearly bare, skeletal branches shivering in the wind.

And here he was, sick with a fever, sitting in a convertible with the top down! Was he trying to kill himself? Isadora grabbed a knit cardigan, pulling it over her pajamas, slipped on her shoes, and eased her bedroom door open.

She tiptoed toward the stairs, heart pounding.

Just as she was about to descend, a voice called softly behind her.

"Isadora, where are you off to at this hour?" Isadora turned to see Eleanor, standing in the hallway with a glass of water in hand.