I arrived a little earlier than expected. My anxiety wouldn't let me sit still in the car and bear the wait out for a few extra minutes so instead, I camped out and ventured into Ivy's. The atmosphere inside is dull but vibrant with a live pianist who sits in the centre underneath a grand chandelier. I inform a staff member at a podium of my arrival and he leads me down a row of private dark-cherry tufted booths.

Upon my approach, Grandpapa Asterio stands up. "Miss Romero," he glimmers brightly at me. It was at that moment I knew I'd walked to the Devil's door. Just a simple Miss Romero, not Mrs nor Mrs Asterio as I'm legally known now. He's washing down the binding, the agreements, the ring on my finger and I'm simply letting him.

"Evening Mr Asterio," We both sit and he recommends a collection of wines I should devastatingly try. They cost £800 by the bottle and at this rate, I need the alcohol in my veins to numb the feeling that's growing in my chest.

A waiter dressed in silk and black bow ties hurries back, pours the champagne along with the order of my food. He's ordered a 21 dry-aged sirloin steak while I've kept it simple roast turkey sage. I don't have much of an appetite and manage half of a bite. The wine though - I indulge in it.

"I knew there was something peculiar about you," he begins, staring dead into my eyes.

I blink, place my glass on the table and stare shrewdly at him. "I hired a private investigator." He casually states, like the weight of his words have no impact on mine. Heat pricks the back of my neck.

"Do you know what he found, Miss Romero?"

He knows, he knows, he knows! I take a sharp inhale, forcing the hard lump down my throat. "What did he find?" I answer back, my voice hoarse.

He's got a file propped beside him on the seat - one I hadn't noticed on my arrival and he opens it slowly and leisurely before slapping down a pile of photographs and articles dating back to July 31 2008. I freeze, my breath fades and I'm staring in shock horror, all of my worst nightmares colliding into one big oblivion.

It's all photographs and articles with my mother lying dead on the page. One is her silver Toyota Camry beaten and bruised, the bonnet ripped off the car. There's a large indent on the door and the interior is filled to the brim with broken stone. Her body is not there.

There's another one of my mother's body lying on the concrete, her beautiful brown hair an array and shielding her dead face. There's too much blood on her white dress, it soaks the depths of her.

The worst of all: there's an article with her face. She's outstretched her hand out, blocking the flash of the paparazzi. She looks beat, tired and irritated with the harassment. It was taken mere seconds before the car collision.

It hurts, even more, knowing the paparazzi crowded around her for ten minutes after the collision, repeatedly photographing the dying last breaths and did nothing.

My throat feels tight, my eyes are beginning to water and I'm suddenly transported back to that horrific night all those years ago. She said she would come back for me. She never did.

The silence is all the answer he needs, I'm too zoned into the photographs and relieving the memories all over again. He chortles out a mused laughter, the venom is beginning to rise ever so slowly. "I don't think Dimitrius knows about this or you. You haven't told him your real name, have you? The one you legally changed at eighteen."

This wasn't an accident. My mother was murdered.

She was murdered by a powerful man who was threatened when she asked for a divorce. She was murdered by her in-laws who never liked her low ranking status. She was murdered by the harassment of the paparazzi for having a fairytale marriage that turned into hell.

Asterio Senior chews thoughtfully, his grey eyes narrowing in concentration. I resent him with every last inch of nerve I have. "I was wondering what has happened to the daughter of that poor little family and years later, she's abandoned her family name, is working a low paying job in some private school and has roped in my grandson for marriage. You're that girl in living breathing flesh married to one of the richest and powerful man in England."

"What do you want?" I seethe. I compile all the photographs and articles in a neat pile and flip them over. How dare he dig up my poor mother's past and use it against me.

"What makes you think I want something?" he smiles at me innocently, the sharp canines of his teeth gleaming with the curve of his wicked lips.

My hand tightened around a photograph of my mother. She's smiling out to the crowd. The image is wrinkling with the weight of my hand, "You're a businessman, a very shrewd one who doesn't cut deals." I retort back, my gaze livid and filled with malice.

"You're Isabella Romero," he mocks. The R rolls from his tongue, revoltingly languid. "Hm, the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree, who did you watch in the boardroom to learn these negotiating skills? Was it all those businessmen?"

A very corrupt man who's no longer a part of my life. I feel sick. He throws a paper at me, a very long and lengthy one. I take my time picking it up and flipping through it.

It's a divorce contract written for Dimitri and me by his lawyers.

"You want me to divorce Dimitri?" The sheer audacity in this man. "Why?"

"My first wife divorced me. I always thought the reason was that my mother meddled too much. That was a lie. She was having an affair behind my back and got knocked up. It was my mother who saved me and now I'm saving my grandson."

"I have done nothing but love Dimitri." Whatever love means in this context. Dimitri and I have opposing views of love. Mine is taking long walks out to the park on the weekend and cooking for him while he is making me sign a contract so I can to pretend to play his wife. That's Dimitri's definition of love.

Asterio Senior sips on his wine, slowly and leisurely. I don't have all the time in the world. "You, Isabella, you come with too much baggage. A mother who was killed in a car accident, a wealthy father who can buy all of Barcelona, an Abuela–"

"I think you're stepping over the line. Don't drag my Abuela in this."

"Consider this a compromise between you and I. Dimitri doesn't deserve you and you definitely don't deserve him. It would have been different circumstances if you weren't estranged from your father. Then this could have been a marriage of alliance and benefited Asterio Industries. Right now, you're doing more harm than good."

Not another compromise, not another contract. My life is filled with these powerful men who think they can just buy me. First my father, next Dimitri and now his Grandpapa.

"What do I say to him?"

"Anything at all. You're a woman. Women are good at making tales."

I cross my arms over my chest and gaze pointedly at him. "I'm not the problem," I state.

"I paid off Jelena Jardins. I can buy you too, name your price."

This is not who I am. These low life men cannot buy me out with price on me.

I'm Isabella Rosaline Romero, goddamnit. I have an inheritance of fucking $808 Million. I'm the fucking future heiress of a hotel empire that owns all of Europe and the United States. I'm more wealthier than the Asterio family and if I wanted too, I could buy his ass in a heartbeat.

I know better though, I know better. I do better.

All this money and inheritance means nothing because I'll cave in like my father and choose greed over everything before me.

I collect myself with a sharp breath. The sharp anger rises to boiling point and I tell him exactly what I want to say, "I think you should find a new hobby than being sexiest and coming off as intimidating to women. With all due respect Mr Asterio, it's doing you no favour and you're simply wrinkling day by day. How old are you? 72? You've merely got a few years left before you're grave is calling you."

His face strikes with surprise, his tiny mouth opening. "Furthermore, stop meddling and accept the fact your grandson is finally happy. I'm the woman warming his bed at night, not you. I'm the woman wearing who swore vows with him, not you. I'm the woman who's got his last name, not you. So screw you and screw your damn compromise."

I roll the articles and photographs of my deceased mother into my clutch and snap it shut.

He's not happy with my sudden outburst but I'm not going to let him get away with blasting my mother's past into my face. He can't bloody blackmail me. "I will tell Dimitrius everything. I will tell him about your murky past and release these to the press. I will–"

I snap, "Be my guest, tell him! Tell him every single detail about me but it'll hurt him more knowing you're the reason behind it. His own grandfather who he probably loves and adores more than his dad. All he does is admire you and try to please you and you don't even acknowledge it. Shame on you."

"You pathetic little b–"

"Since you've discovered who I am, I want you to remember it," I declare, holding his darkened grey gaze in the dim lights. "I can buy you and all of Asterio Industries with one phone call. It's a shame my father wasn't able to come to the wedding because I would have asked him to buy Asterio Industries as a wedding present for me."

With the attempt of a threat hanging in the air, I gather my shit and strut out.

"Have a wonderful evening, Mr Asterio," I state over my shoulder. I hope he goes straight to hell.

My throat is tight and my hands are shaking. The tears are blurring my vision and for the first time in forever, I'm bawling my eyes out in the car. I throw the clutch onto the passenger seat, it's too heavy, filled with horrid memories and death. What if he tells Dimitri and he finds out who I am?

What if my father's already told him? What if- I crash into myself more, the mascara and liner running black streaks down my face. What if the press finds out all my terrible secrets I've been suppressing for years. It's been 14 damn years and with passing years, the hollow chip in my heart widens.

Mama was supposed to come back for me. Her brakes failed. The paparazzi exploited her even more. The memories are one big jumble of horror pitching past my mind. There's nothing I can do to silence them.

The longer I sit in the bleak repose of my car, the longer I regret the marriage. I think I should divorce him to save myself.